If I've killed one man, I've killed two
by Bathorybabe
Summary: After the events in Awakenings Harlow Tabris returns to Denerim to foil a plot to assassinate her ex lover and King of Ferelden. But Alistair has changed greatly in the time she's been away, and she wonders if he's even worth saving. A F!Tabris/Alistair and F!Tabris/Zevran pairing. T for now (for cursing and referrence to sex).
1. Chapter 1

**A/N The title comes from a line in the Sylvia Plath poem 'Daddy,' and it will make far more sense in later chapters I swear. So in this world, Alistair is hardened and crowned King, but Tabris did not take him up on the suggestion to become his mistress. Alsom he slept with Morrigan as part of the dark ritual. I believe that is all you need to know in terms of back story for this to make sense. Takes place after Awakenings. I promise a new chapter in a day or so. Please R&R!**

**Bioware owns all, I just dress them up to suit my day dreams.**

Harlow Tabris shook off the rain that clung to her cloak as she stepped inside the pearl. It was unfit for man nor darkspawn out there, the northern winds having brought one raging bitch of a storm with them.

"Good to be back in Denerim," she muttered with a scowl as a serving girl hurried hastily to take her cloak. She handed it over greatly and ran her fingers through her newly shorn obsidian hair. It always surprised her when the path from root to end ended abruptly at her nape. It was as if she had not quite gotten over the fact that her tresses no longer trailed down her shoulders to end at the small of her back. For the hundredth time she wondered what had possessed her to chop it all off into a severe and sharp a-line bob, and then, for the hundredth and one time she remembered. Trying to shrug off the painful reminder she stepped into the brothel proper, took a seat at the bar, and motioned for the barkeep. After ordering a small tankard of ale, she surveyed the room and caught the eye of a dwarven women, heavily made up, clothing fitting snugly about her chest. With a crook of her finger she motioned the girl over.

"How can I help you, lovie?" The dwarf asked; a hand placed suggestively on Harlow's leg.

"You can help me with information, _dearie_," Harlow replied good naturedly as she gently removed the hand. The dwarf shrugged in indifference and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Costs the same as the other, I'd wager, nothin's free in the pearl, you understand?"

Harlow chuckled softly as she plucked a sovereign from the depths of the purse she wore tied to the belt her waist. She held it up before the dwarf with a raised eyebrow.

"More than twice the going rate, unless the asking price has gone up since I've been gone. Should be more than enough to get the answer I'm looking for."

"That'll do me, it's your coin after all, where should I care where you spend it," The dwarf replied with a shrug, snatching the coin from Harlow's hand. "Now, what can Clara do for ye?"

Pausing to take a large gulp of ale, Harlow hoped she had come to the right place. It made the most sense, and she wasn't interested in chasing her quarry all over Denerim in this storm.

"I'm looking for a man…and elf to be exact, I heard he frequents here."

"This a husband of yours?" Clara asked, a mean spirited grin forming on her lips, "sorry love, but we're in the business of keepin out clients secrets, specially from jealous wives. I swear, you knife ears are so-"

Harlow pinned the dwarf with a glare that showed every drop of malice she felt for that word.

"Finnish that thought or use that phrase within my hearing again and I will gut you with something much sharper than my ears," she growled through clenched teeth. Clara's face turned a ghastly shade of white as the blood drained from fear. "You would do well to remember that not all elves are weak little gutter rats holed up in the alienage."

"Y-yes ma'am," Clara stammered, taking a step back.

"As to my question, no, he is not my husband. He is a dear friend of mine and I merely wish to give him some information. Is that clear?" She watched as Clara quickly bobbed her head in agreement and drew on the tankard of ale once more.

"The man in question is Antivan, blonde, with a tattoo on the side of face. Does that strike a bell, Clara?"

"That one?" Clara asked with a sigh of relief, her demeanor relaxing immediately, "By the stone, why didn't you say so before? One mention of that rake and I'dve known you wasn't looking for no lost husband. Caridan himself would rise from the stone before _that_ one took a wife."

Remembering her time in Orzamar, Harlow let out a snort of laughter. "I'd rethink that last bit, if I were you," she said into her cup as she took another sip of ale. Clara looked at her in confusion, clearly lost to her meaning. "Never mind. Is he here?"

"Yeah, comes in about twice a week. He's in the back with Brigeette," Clara said gesturing to the doorway that led to the bedchambers.

"Fantastic!" Harlow declared, draining the last of her cup before rising. Clara let out a sound of protestation as the elven woman strode unabashedly towards the door.

"He's not alone!" the dwarf called out, trying to dissuade her from her path.

"Nothing I haven't seen before," Harlow replied dismissively before stopping to grab the nearest guard and ask which room was the infamous Brigeette's. After having secured directions she counted off the doors, arriving at one secluded back and into a corner. She could hear muffled noises of passion coming through the door and she suppressed a grin as she barged into the room.

"So sorry to interrupt," she said cheerfully as she surveyed the mass of contorted and sweaty limbs, "but I need to borrow the elf for a moment."

She watched as Zevran's head popped up from the mattress, a mischievous grin on his face.

"Harlow! What brings you to Denerim my delectable friend?" he cried out with happiness.

"Disentangle yourself from the woman's charms and I shall tell you," Harlow replied grinning, pointedly not looking at what had to be some very creative positioning. Did joints really bend that way?

"Forgive me, sweetling," Zevran murmured to Brigeette as he gracefully slipped out of bed, taking a sheet to wrap about his hips as he did so. "I promise to return momentarily."

Harlow watched in amusement as the elf gracefully sat down on a small stool seated near a dilapidated vanity. She joined him by leaning her rump against the worn wood, her eyes full of delight.

"How did you know where to find me?" Zevran asked with amusement.

"It was either here, or at your safe house, and considering I have yet to hear of any noblemen meeting a mysterious end I figured you were indulging in your _other_ favorite past time," she replied with a shrug. Zevran let out a bark of laughter.

"Too true, my friend. The assassin business has been rather slow. It is what comes from a nation being united under one ruler, yes?"Too late he realized his error as Harlow's relaxed stance grew tense and withdrawn. His grin fell from his mouth as he closed his eyes and sighed. "I am sorry, Lo-Lo, truly. I did not think-"

Harlow cut him off with a wave of her hand, dismissing the unintended hurt.

"It's fine, Zev, really. That is why I came to find you, I've heard troubling rumors about our _dear_ King," she said, her voice turning bitter.

"Oh? And what rumors would those be?"

"The kind that require your expertise, my dear assassin. It seems someone is planning to end Alistair's rein in a most untimely manner."

Zevran took in the words, his eyes turning shrewd and calculating as he weighed their meaning. In the end he nodded, his features all business and planning.

"Have you proof?" he inquired.

"Nothing solid, but there are too many pieces of information that don't sit well with me. Have you heard nothing of this from the crows?"

"My dear friend, I am a dead man to the crows, why should any of their information find its way to my ear?" he stated with a finality.

"Oh come on, Zev, they most certainly know you are alive. For fuck's sake Ignacio has seen you walking about, making threatening and lewd comments. Let's put aside this cloak and dagger crap and face the reality of the situation," she cried throwing up her hands in exasperation.

"Be that as it may," he explained slowly, "they are not in the habit of acknowledging my existence. The notion that I would have any insight into their current contracts is ridiculous."

"Fine, I figured it was worth asking. I'll have to go see Ignacio myself I suppose. But if the crows aren't a part of this, it leaves me with very little avenues to follow."

"The crows are not the only guild of assassins in the word, my sweet warden, but that is a conversation for another time. What do you intend to do while we root out this would be dispatcher?" He asked lightly, testing his friend and one time pupil.

"I shall do as my dear mentor instructed," she teased, hitting him on the shoulder, "I shall infiltrate the palace and keep an eye on our dimwitted liege."

"Harlow, you are too well known to the nobility to pass as a serving wench in the laundry, it will not work," he said disapprovingly.

"Were you not the one who taught me that the best lies have a bit of truth to them?" she countered grinning. "I really do have business that requires my presence at the castle prudent. As warden commander, and arlessa of Amaranthine, I have come to beg for recruits and funds to rebuild what was lost after the recent cluster fuck that the Mother and the Architect dropped on our laps."

"It seems you have stories, my friend. Perhaps another time you shall tell me of them, yes? But it seems you have a plan. I shall poke around a bit, see what I can uncover about those…displeased with the bastard king."

"We should meet tomorrow evening, compare notes. I have a set of rooms at the palace set aside, come to me there are we can talk," She said as she rose to leave.

"How I have longed to hear such an invite to your chamber, my dear friend," he said seductively as he rose. She tried for a stern countenance but ending up laughing despite herself.

"Ever the rakish cad, right Zev?" she sighed and motioned back towards the bed and the waiting Brigeette who had witnessed their exchange with heavy lidded eyes. "I'll leave you to your companion, we shall speak more tomorrow."

As she turned to leave, Zevran called out her name causing her to turn back in expectation. She was surprised to find his face serious and concerned.

"Harlow, whatever you are expecting….Alistair….he is not the same man you left behind. Tread carefully dear one."

Harlow swallowed hard and schooled her expression into one of neutrality.

"Whatever man I expected him to be, he was never that person to begin with. He made that quite clear after the landsmeet," she said neutrally and turned to go, Zevran's soft sigh followed her out as she shut the door behind her.


	2. Chapter 2

The wind and rain had picked up in the short amount of time that Harlow had been inside the pearl. She grumbled as she pulled her cloak closer in a futile effort to keep dry, not that it did much good; within seconds she was soaked through.

"Well, there goes that set of armor," she grumbled as she made her way through the muddy streets towards the palace district. It was a long, miserable journey but eventually she found herself standing in entry chamber of the castle, fat drops of water falling from her hands to plop nosily on the stone floor. A nearby servant took in her bedraggled appearance and sneered.

"Can I help you?" he asked, as if the very thought offended him.

"Yes," she answered with just as much disdain, "I have a need to see the King, be a good man and run and fetch him."

"The King is indisposed at the moment," the man replied with disdain, pointedly glancing at her delicate ears, "if you wish to petition for a meeting I suggest you do so in three days time when he holds his public audience."

"Why would I return three days from now when I can simply cross the hall from my room to his?" she asked with mock sweetness. The man's demeanor changed instantly, his bravado gone, replaced with hastily affected obedience.

"Arlessa, forgive me. I did not recognize you with your hair shorn so short," he cried out, bowing low. Harlow rolled her eyes as he darted forward to unclasp her cloak.

"Yes, it seems it's transformed me entirely," she replied dryly, "I trust my rooms have been made ready?"

"Oh yes, Arlessa! We received word of your visit two days ago and all has been taken care of," he answered brightly as he gestured for her to follow him.

"Good, please inform his Majesty that I have urgent news for ears alone and to visit me as soon as possible."

The man faltered a bit in his steps before continuing to lead Harlow through the maze of hallways and rooms that led to her suite.

"I do apologize, but the King truly _is_ unavailable at the moment. I could leave a message with his steward conveying the urgency, but you may have to wait some time."

Harlow let out a frustrated sigh. The Alistair she knew would never have kept her waiting, so trusting was he in her judgment. If she believed something was of vital importance, _he _believed it as well. It had filled her with a sense of validation, to know that this man, who was of royal blood, would put his faith and trust in the hands of an elven woman. Having grown up in the alienage, the idea that elves were _less than_ and of no importance had been so ingrained within her that to this day, she found it baffling that she was leading an army of Grey Wardens, men and women who looked up to her and had complete and utter faith in her abilities. The way Alistair had looked at her, as if she were the answer to life's persistent questions, had gone a long way to easing those painful feelings of inadequacies…but apparently, being crowned king had changed all that.

"I suppose he really isn't all that different from any other man," she whispered sadly, "give him power and he will take full advantage of it."

The servant stiffened at her words but made no comment, instead choosing to pretend as if he hadn't heard her speak. At last he stopped in front of the doors that led to her set of rooms and bowed quickly.

"I shall leave a message with the King's steward, my lady. Do you require anything else?"

"Andraste, yes, a bath and a meal, both of them steaming hot if it's not too much trouble," she said, groaning with pleasure at the thought. He bowed once again and departed, leaving her alone in the too quiet space. She couldn't help but glance at the heavy set of double doors that lay at the far end of the hallway. Alistair's rooms...they were mere feet from her, but it felt miles long. She could feel the chasm that had sprung up between them that night so long ago pressing down on her, bringing out a myriad of memories, both wonderful and tragic. With a resigned sigh she tore her eyes away from the door and stepped into her suite.

~oOo~

Three hours had gone by and Harlow was starting to get annoyed. She was freshly bathed and fed, her stomach fair groaning with the overabundance of food she had gobbled up. Being on the road for the past few months had caused her to forget what anything besides dry venison and squirrel tasted like and when she saw the platters of iced melon, fresh caught sea food, and fluffy bread brought before her, she set into them with a passion.

But that had been hours ago, and still no word from Alistair's steward as to when she could expect an audience. She had been running a circuit of pacing and sitting, pacing and sitting for the last half hour, impatiently waiting for a knock at her door. She eventually let out a growl of frustration and decided that she would take matters into her own hands. She took a deep breath, set her shoulders, and smoothed the skirt of her gown over her legs. The dress had been a last minute acknowledgement of the fact that, technically, she was now a member of the nobility, and she should look the part. So she had reluctantly allowed her maid to simper and fawn of her she stuffed herself into the frippery. It was a gown of deep black velvet, embroidered with golden thread along the hem and neckline, a neckline that swooped low in front and even lower in back, revealing the tips of her shoulder blades. As much as she hated to admit, the gown looked wonderful of her, bringing out the creamy quality of her skin, and making her eyes deep fathomless pools. Even though she would never say it aloud, she was quite pleased with the effect, a part of her thinking that it wouldn't hurt to remind Alistair what he had given up.

Harlow strode out of her rooms, muttering to herself the whole way.

"He's probably just meeting with Eamon," she reasoned, "surely the Arl would agree that the possibility of a royal assassination trumps whatever political scheme the two are concocting."

It was true, if the rumors of court politics were to be believed, that Alistair relied heavily on his uncle's experience to help rule the kingdom. Alistair had been thrown into the role of leader, completely unprepared for what was expected of him. In the end he was the only one who believed it would not come to that, that despite Anora being found complicit with her father's plots and ceremoniously dethroned, Alistair never once stopped to think that he was the only viable heir at that point. She still remembered the way he had looked at her that day, as if she had betrayed him. And she supposed in a way she had, but she had her own reasons for seeing Alistair crowned King. Reasons that disappeared into nothing more than fanciful day dreams almost immediately. Well, all the reasons but one…she truly did think that given time and a strong hand to guide him he would be a benevolent and just ruler, and it appeared he was well on his way to doing just that.

Pushing aside ugly memories she came to a stop outside the massive doors and paused, wondering if she should knock. In the end she rapped her fist against the wood sharply, listening closely for an invitation. When none was forth coming she tried again, and pressed her ear to the door. She could hear muffled noises, the sound of something heavy hitting against the wall and a strangled moan of a man. Eyes wide she quickly stepped back, pausing only briefly to slip the set of long daggers she had hidden in her sleeves out and into her waiting hands. With a grunt of determination she kicked at the doors, splintering the wood sharply. Two more thrusts and they gave, swinging open with a protesting groan.

Harlow leapt into the room, eyes seeking out the enemy, but instead of assassins she found something far more upsetting. Alistair and a very buxom and _very_ naked woman were currently engaged in what Harlow could only describe as enthusiastic sport. At her loud and very noticeable entrance the couple turned to look at her in surprise. Alistair's gaze locked with hers, his eyes bleary as he tried to focus. She stared back I in astonishment, mouth open and unable to form words. Luckily Alistair saved her the trouble as recognition dawned on him.

"Harlow?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: two chapters in one day! Sorry for the angst in this chapter, but it had to be done. **

There were no words. None. Language was a foreign and distant concept to Harlow as she stared into Alistair's confused eyes. She could feel a myriad of emotions flowing through her, running the gamut from pain to amusement to disbelief. Eventually her mind settled on anger and she brought herself up straight and tall, her eyes simmering with rage.

"Forgive me, your majesty, I did not realize you were _entertaining," _she said with icy precision.

"Oh, well, honest mistake," he said slurred, still entangled with the curvaceous lass. Harlow narrowed her eyes in understanding.

"You're drunk," she stated accusingly.

"Right you are!" he declared happily, listing a bit to the side.

"Ali," the woman whined nasally, "who is this woman?"

Harlow's knuckles turned white as she gripped her weapons tightly, aching fiercely to smack the woman. It was irrational; Alistair was no longer hers to claim, but Maker's breath! Did he have to go out of his way to find someone so completely unlike her? Someone with soft curves of flesh that would fill out any bodice nicely, with golden hair and summer sky eyes? It made her feel gangly and common by comparison. She felt suddenly ridiculous in the sumptuous gown, like a small child playing at being beautiful.

"Um this is…the…uh, Arlessa of Amaranthine." Alistair supplied finally, as if he had to comb the recesses of his mind for her title, never mind that he had bestowed it upon her only a year prior. The woman pouted and wriggled against him, electing a gasp from his throat.

"No, no," Harlow declared with bitter politeness, "by all means continue. Clearly this is far more important than anything I would have to offer."

A flash of pain, here and gone, crossed Alistair's face, sobering him slightly. Harlow pretended that she imagined it, choosing to focus on her anger and shock at what was playing out before her. Alistair disentangled himself from the woman's embrace, his eyes filled with apologies.

"Give me a moment, Melly," he murmured, grin flashing on his face, "I need to discuss kingly business with the Arlessa."

Melly giggled girlishly, sliding off the bed and grabbing her clothing from a pile on the floor. She crossed to him, hips swaying seductively the whole time. Harlow looked away in disgust as the woman pressed herself against Alistair's chest and gave him a very thorough kiss.

"You know where to find me," she whispered coquettishly into his ear before sauntering past Harlow, tongue thrust out in impertinence. Harlow smiled dangerously in response, saluting Melly with the tip of a dagger. She took great pleasure in watching the girl's eyes go wide and her feet stumble back in fear. After that it was mere seconds before Melly fled the room, leaving Alistair and Harlow alone.

"Well," Alistair supplied lamely shifting from one foot to the other.

"Could you please put some clothes on?" she hissed before returning her daggers to their hiding place deep within her sleeves.

"Oh! Right," he muttered as he began to look around the room for said garments. As he did so Harlow fixed her eyes on the wallpaper, determined not to let her eyes linger on the smooth planes of muscle that made up his chest, or the way the candlelight played across his skin. It was damned hard to do, but somehow she managed, fixing her anger like a talisman to pray over.

After a few moments of rummaging Alistair managed to succeed in finding his breeches and coughed softly to let her know it was safe to face him.

"Harlow," the way he said her name made her shudder, it was completely neutral, void of any emotion. "To what do I owe the late night visit?"

She regarded him with shrewd eyes, mind still lingering over Melly and the condition she had found them in.

"Where exactly _did_ you find her?" she asked abruptly, a masochistic need to know every detail suddenly filling her. Alistair blinked at her, confused by the sudden change in topic. "She said you know where to find her, I'm just curious as to where that is? A brothel perhaps? Or, I'm sorry, is she noble? Not that there's really much difference, at least the whores at the pearl are honest about their trade."

"Not that it is any of your business," he said, his voice growing low with outrage, "but she's a laundress here in the castle."

Harlow shook her head in amazement; it was all becoming too much. All the reasons Alistair had refused her that night so long ago, all the insulting offers he had put forth, and she stumbles upon him in bed with a servant? If was the final painful emotional slap and she lost control.

"I guess you truly are Meric's son," she spat, watching him flinch as if she'd struck him, "bedding down with the serving girls, passing your nights in drink and women, it all rings far too familiar. Have you sired any bastards yet, Alistair? Or have you yet to reach that part in your reign?"

She had gone too far, and she knew it the moment the words were out of her mouth. Alistair's jaw hardened and his eyes took on a sharp edge. He crossed the distance between them swiftly, glaring down at her the whole while.

"I am your King, Arlessa, not some recruit that you can slap around to vent your anger. You will treat me with the respect due your lord and master, is that clear?" he growled out, hands clenched into fists at his side.

"There is no need to remind me, _your Majesty_, I am reminded of it nearly every day," she whispered venomously, her eyes watering up despite her efforts to remain impassive. Alistair caught the hidden meaning of her words and swallowed hard before turning away, putting a little distance between the two.

"Why are you here, Harlow?" he asked softly.

"There are a myriad of reasons for my visit," she replied formally, "both as the Arlessa and the Warden Commander. And there is a far more serious matter that brings me here in quite a different role."

"And none of that could have waited until morning?" he asked, turning around to face her, arms crossed as he leaned against the bed post.

"Believe me, I am sorely regretting my impatience," she muttered, folding her arms against her chest and looking away.

"Why do you even, care Lo?" he asked with exasperation. She whipped her head around, shocked to hear her nickname on his lips. "If memory serves, you were the one who put me in this position. You were the one who ended what we had."

"_I_ put you in this position?" she asked incredulously, "If you're looking to place blame, the death of our….relationship is something that lies solely at your feet."

"I offered you everything I had!" he roared in anger, "Damn you Lo-Lo, I tried. When the landsmeet named me king, I tried my damndest to keep you in my life."

Silence filled the space between them, the only sound the cracking and spitting of logs in the fireplace. Harlow stared at him hard, pain crashing through her body. A single tear rolled down her cheek and she shook her head, the barest of movements.

"That's the worst lie you've ever told me," she whispered. Alistair looked at her in shock, his shoulders hunching inwards in shame.

"That's not true," he reasoned, " I told you, if I was to be king there would be no way I could marry you, so I thought, perhaps, that if you became-"

"Your mistress!" she cried and she strode near him, their faces mere inches apart, "your dirty little secret that you hid away from view. If you loved me at all you never would have suggested such a thing!"

He gripped her shoulders tightly, bringing her even closer to him, his breath hot on her skin. She could smell the brandy on him, the way it mingled with the woodsy smell that always seemed to cling to his flesh, a scent that had always been uniquely Alistair.

"Then why did you make me King?" he cried, his eyes searching hers for answers. Unseen electricity crackled between them, their breath coming in rapid gasps. Had they been farther apart, Harlow could have explained, giving voice to her day dreams and wishes that she never had a chance to see fulfilled those many months ago, but the proximity with which they stood rendered her speech useless. She could feel the line of his body, so near to hers, like a pulse of fire playing along her skin. So tempting to close the gap, the press against him.

She knew the moment when it had become too much, watched Alistair's eyes flick down to take in her heart shaped lips. She was unsure as to what would have transpired had she not caught movement out of the corner of her eye and discerned just in time what was about to happen. Eyes wide she gripped Alistair by the shoulders and cried "Look out!"

She just barely managed to throw her weight into the man, toppling them both onto the bed as a small dagger whizzed by overhead, lodging its self deep within the wall behind them. Harlow glanced up to find a figure crouched within an open window too their right. It was an elf, male, all lithe muscle and grace, another dagger poised and ready in his hand. Acting quickly Harlow wrapped her arms about Alistair and rolled them both off the bed and on to the floor. Using what precious seconds she had available, she hiked the skirt of her gown up past her thigh, revealing a leather garter armed with throwing knives. Alistair became temporarily distracted by the sudden exposure of her flesh.

"Focus!" she hissed as she once more unsheathed the daggers from her arms, shoving them into Alistair's arms. "Here, you take these. I hope you remember how to use them." Alistair grinned at her, for a moment looking every inch the man she remembered; a boyish youth who loved the thrill of battle. Despite herself she grinned back before deftly taking two of her knives in hand. After silently counting down from three, the two of them took a deep breath and leapt up to meet their adversary.

It was as if time had not separated them, so quickly they fell into a routine. It was as if Alistair knew exactly where she would be, knew when to duck as she released her knives in succession. When she had exhausted her supply, and still the assassin stood before them, pressing them both with a wicked looking long sword, Harlow was unsurprised to find Alistair press one of his daggers into her palm. Despite what lay between them, they knew each other so well that every movement of the deadly dance was imprinted in their bones, and they danced the steps unthinkingly.

It was over in a manner of minutes, Harlow dropping low to cut at the elf's hamstrings, whilst Alistair aimed high, managing to slide his blade into the gap between shoulder and chest. The two gazed dispassionately down at the man as a bloody forth bubbled to his lips and the light slowly seeped from his eyes. Minutes passed without sound, both breathing hard and reveling in the afterglow of battle.

Harlow eventually turned her head to face Alistair, a wry smile on her lips despite the tumult of emotions inside her.

"_That_ is why I came, Alistair. It seems you have a bounty on your head."

"Huh?" was all the mighty King of Ferelden could muster.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** **Okay, this one was a little hard to write, because of that it's not my favorite :-( Thanks so much to all who have added the story, it means alot. And shout out to KatDancer2 for pointing out my truly stupid use of Calian as opposed to Meric in the previous chapter, it's fixed now (you guys should check out her stuff, esp. Heart of Stone, truly well written!)**

An hour later the room was a hornet's nest of activity. Guards milled about, barking orders to servants, and visiting nobles crowded the door way, trying to get a peek at what had transpired in the King's bedchamber. Alistair, now fully clothed, ignored it all, so focused on his rebelling stomach that everything else seemed unimportant. Harlow watched him, an evil sort of satisfaction filling her. The skirmish had sobered him up, but brought with it a wicked hangover that was now waging its own sort of battle against the King.

"Are all these people really necessary?" she asked him after a moment, bending down to murmur in his ear. He flinched away from her with a moan.

"Please don't shout," he whimpered, head cradled in his hands.

"I wouldn't dream of it," she said with considerably more volume than was necessary, grinning as he shot her glare from between his fingers, "but the point remains. You need to clear some of these people out." Alistair opened his mouth to give her a scathing retort but was interrupted by Arl Eamon barging into the room.

"By the Maker!" the older man breathed, "What is going on?"

"Eamon," Harlow said cheerfully, motioning for him to join her, "how good it is to see you."

"Harlow?" he replied, squinting, unsure if it was really here. She sighed and lifted a hand to her hair.

"Yes, yes, my hair, it's quite the change, didn't recognize me blah blah blah," she rattled off dryly, eyes rolling.

"Indeed it is, but it quite suits you!" Eamon replied, striding forward to take her hand in his, planting a gentlemanly kiss atop it. Harlow smiled, ready to inquire as to the Arl's health when a grumpy muttering interrupted her.

"If you two are quite done exchanging pleasantries could we _please_ deal with the matter of the dead assassin on the floor?"

Harlow spared Alistair a glare as Eamon's eyes widened, noticing for the first time the corpse that lay not four feet from them.

"Assassin? Your majesty! Are you hurt?"

"Unless you count this stampede of brontos in my head as 'hurt,' no, I'm just peachy," he grumped, eyes squeezed tight. Eamon raised an eyebrow at Harlow, a silent request for confirmation of Alistair's words.

"He's suffering the aftereffects of _quite_ an entertaining evening, but that is all. The king remains unharmed," she supplied with false politeness, her eyes clearly stating that Alistair's behavior this evening was something they would be discussing _very soon. _Eamon coughed uncomfortably and turned his attention back to the dead man. It was then that he noticed the sheer number of people in the room.

"Alistair, what are all these people doing in here?" he asked baffled. Harlow let a smug, triumphant look cross her face as Alistair growled in displeasure.

"Bloody nug bits…fine," he muttered before straightening up and declaring loudly, "All of you! Out! Leave us and take that mess with you." He then sunk back down into his hands, once again ignoring everyone around him. The guards snapped into action, directing onlookers out and away from the rooms. Harlow watched a pair of them hoist the corpse up into the air and she stepped forward, a hand out in protest.

"No! Leave it," she cried. The guards looked at her warily, clearly wondering what use an elven woman would have with a dead body. "Leave it, and send a mage to preserve it. I want him to be recognizable. Do you understand me?" The guards shifted, unsure as to who exactly she was and if her orders were to be obeyed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Eamon nod slightly, a silent backing of her desires. The two men shrugged, dumped the body on the floor and filed out behind their comrades. A moment later the door shut, leaving the trio is sudden quiet.

"What is the meaning of this?" Eamon asked finally, turning to Harlow for answers having deduced that the King would be of very little use under the present circumstances.

"I apologize, Eamon, I had hoped to make a full report before any attempts on his life were made, but _someone_ was too busy to grant me an audience," she said pointedly, arms crossed.

"Forgive me for having a bit of fun, I didn't realize being King meant that I would have to give up such things," Alistair muttered darkly from behind his hands.

"Oh stop it, both of you!" Eamon snapped, his eyes narrowed, "we are all aware of the resentment you bear for each other but there is a slightly more pressing matter at hand."

Harlow blushed in shame, realizing just how petty and petulant she sounded. She knew returning to Denerim and Alistair would not be easy, indeed it would be painful, but she did not expect for such a venomous side of her personality to come to the surface. A small, distant part of her knew she was only acting this way in an effort to mask her pain, but it did not make her feel any better.

"You're right, Eamon, I apologize," she sighed before straightening her shoulders and explaining the dire news. "I'm afraid someone has placed a bounty on the King's head. Tonight was one such assassination attempt. Luck favored us this time, but this surely will not be the last such attack."

Eamon absorbed the words quietly, turning over the possibility in his mind. Eventually he nodded, regarding her with questioning eyes.

"And this is why you have returned to Denerim?" he stated, the question merely a formality.

"The most vital reason, yes. There are others, ones that will be the public excuse for my presence, but this is the true explanation for my return."

"You mean you didn't just return to yell at me? Fantastic," Alistair stated dryly as he rose unsteadily to his feet.

"Consider it a pleasant bonus," she said sweetly, her eyes dull and unfeeling. He leveled a look at her in response, a look so intense and focused that her breath caught. There was anger there, simmering on the surface, but also accusation, pain, and some other dangerous, unnamed emotion. It brought the memory of them standing so close, his eyes fixed on her lips, roaring back to her mind and she looked away, hunching in on herself.

"I am assuming you have proof of this plot?" Eamon asked, oblivious to what passed between her and Alistair.

"Not any that would stand up to scrutiny, no. But there are far too many coincidences to ignore. And I do think a dead assassin in the King's bedroom lends credence to my tale," she replied pointedly. The Arl opened his mouth to press her further but Alistair's stomach chose that precise moment to rebel and he ran to the window, arriving just in time before becoming violently ill.

"The rest can wait until morning," Harlow replied hurriedly, "his majesty is in no condition to discuss this at the moment. For now I suggest placing guards at every door and window, at least for the remainder of the evening until we come up with a plan."

"Agreed," Eamon said warily as he inched away from the puking monarch. He turned to Harlow, his arm held out in offering, "may I escort you to your room, Arlessa?"

She nodded and accepted, the two of them hurrying out of the room to escape the sounds of moans and retching. Eamon paused for a moment beside the door, ordering a nearby guard to station a watch around the king. It was quickly done and the two began the short stroll to her rooms. When they had arrived at her door, Eamon made to bid her goodnight but she cut him off with a raised hand.

"What is going on here, Eamon?" she demanded. The Arl looked at her uncomfortably, shifting from one foot to the other.

"I do not know what you mean, Arlessa," he said softly, feigning ignorance.

"Nugshit!" she hissed, "you know _exactly_ what I mean. The mistress, the drinking? How long has he been behaving this way?"

"I don't rightly see that it is any of your business, Harlow," Eamon said stiffly, drawing himself up straight and tall.

"Do not forget that I put him on that throne, Eamon, _at your behest_. You knew what would become of us if I did, and still you asked me. So don't try to stonewall me now, I am not some simpering lordling begging favor from the crown. Answer me."

"Why _did_ you put him on the throne then?" Eamon shot back, "You made his bed for him, Arlessa, do you cry now that he does not lie in it alone?"

"I put him there because I _thought_ he would be a good king," she said softly, "someone who cared for the land and the people, who could see the big picture and not just the path to power."

Eamon's eyes softened at her words and he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She looked at him with questioning eyes, unsure of the answer she was about to seek.

"I thought he was made of stronger stuff than his father and brother…but it seems they are made from the same mold. Am I wrong, Eamon? Or is Alistair no better than those who came before him?"

The Arl hesitated, unsure as to how to temper his words. In the end he sighed, deciding she deserved no more than the truth.

"At one time, he might have been," he said softly, "in the beginning he was dedicated, eager to learn, and very involved…but over time…he began to focus on the pleasures that are afforded a king rather than his duties."

"When?" she wondered, "When did he become this?"

"I'm not sure I should say, Harlow," Eamon said, refusing to meet her eyes. She stared at him in confusion, her mind taking a moment to catch the meaning of his words. Realization dawned on her and she felt herself withdraw into numbness.

"When I left," she murmured, "when I left to oversee Amaranthine." She began nodding rapidly, as if accepting the information would make it easier to bear.

"When confronted about his behavior, he would say, 'it's what she taught me, so blame her if you're so damn concerned.' We still aren't quite sure what he meant by it."

Oh, but Harlow did. She knew very well. Her face blanched at the memory, so close in her mind. Standing outside Goldanna's house, she had railed at him for his naiveté, teaching him the hard lesson that so many in the world are only out for themselves. He had been hurt by her words, but after thinking upon them, reluctantly agreed with her. Declaring in triumph that from now on he would be thinking more about what he wanted, as opposed to what others desired. She had smiled warmly at the time, thinking that she was watching him take one more step towards the man he was destined to be….now the words made her feel sick, as if he had taken her lesson and twisted it into something selfish and wrong.

"No one blames you, my dear," Eamon said gently, bring her back to the present, "you cannot be expected to shoulder a foolish man's actions."

"Why not?" she asked defensively, shrugging off the Arl's arm. "Why should I not be blamed? I'm the one that killed him after all."

Eamon took a step back in shock and confusion.

"Harlow-"

"It's true Eamon," she said, voice dull and empty of compassion, "I killed Alistair the minute I gave him that crown…and I accepted it knowing the king was needed far more than the man. But it seems that by killing one man, I also killed the king he should have been."

Eamon said nothing, unable to deny the truth in her words. Harlow turned slowly to unlock her door, pausing at the threshold.

"Fix this, Eamon, if not for Alistair's sake, then for Ferelden's."

She didn't wait for a reply before gently shutting the door behind her.


	5. Chapter 5

In the early hours of the morning, before the sun had yet to show its head, the rain and wind had ceased its attack on the town of Denerim. Fog crept through the alleyways, twining through buildings and stalls like a specter, lovingly caressing stone and wood in an eerie embrace. No one was about, save a lone figure, creeping through the street silently, wrapped in shadows like a cloak. The figure moved fluidly through alley ways and side streets, making hardly a sound, coming to a stop before a small window located at the back of the Gnawed Noble Tavern. Had anyone been around to see it, they would have noticed a dangerous flash of white cut through the darkness as the figure smiled malevolently.

~oOo~

His training was far to ingrained in him for the soft sound of a latch lifting not to stir him from slumber. Ignacio shot straight up in bed, eyes flicking about the modest room, searching for signs of an intruder. Candlelight played along the walls, casting strange shadows and shapes to snake along the floor. Nothing seemed to be amiss, nothing except the cool breeze floating through the open window. Ignacio frowned and silently pulled a dagger from beneath his pillow, cautiously sliding off the bed to investigate. Eyes ever wary, he slowly made his way to the open pane. Upon further inspection he discovered the latch bent, as if forced open. Someone had most definitely tried to break into his room. But for what purpose? He sensed movement behind him, the sudden dancing of the candlelight on the walls tipping him off to the intruder's presence. He tensed and whirled about; striking out blindly, but his dagger only met air.

Breathing hard he shifted to and fro, seeking his opponent and finding nothing. Just as he was about to turn his attention back to the broken latch, he felt a hand snake through his hair, wrenching his head back painfully, and the kiss of steel press into his neck.

"Ignacio," a familiar and amused voice purred next to his ear, "I expected better of a Crow."

Ignacio stiffened in surprise, but kept his voice light, as was his wont to do when dealing with such interactions. "Warden, I did not think to see you again."

"I did not think you would be so foolish as to give me a reason to."

His captor released him harshly, shoving him into the wall. He hastily spun around, only to be greeted with the tip of a dagger pointed squarely over his heart. He raised an eyebrow in amusement as dropped his dagger and studied the woman across from him. The last time he had seen Harlow Tabris had been well over two years ago. Her appearance had changed, that much was obvious, and she bore the faint remnants of a few new scars; but that proud bearing, the steel veneer that covered a much more temperate heart, _that_ all remained the same.

"How can the Crows be of service, my friend?" He asked conversationally, as if a deadly weapon were not pointed at him.

"What makes you think we are friends?" she wondered idly, untroubled by his supposed lack of concern.

"Have we not always been friendly? Has that not been the nature of our game from the beginning?" Ignacio countered with a shrug, eyes sparkling.

"I am not the noviate I was two years ago, Ignacio, and I will not go 'round in circles with you, old man," she threatened darkly, pressing the tip of her blade harder against his chest. He could feel it slip through the brocade, scratching his skin sharply beneath.

"Of that much, it is apparent. Zevran has taught you well."

"Oh?" she asked with a twitch of her lips, "You are acknowledging his existence now?"

"Even the dead have secrets, Warden, who I am to begrudge them that, or who chooses to listen?" he said evasively. She scowled in response, her patience fraying. "Perhaps our conversation will go more to your liking if you tell me why you have visited me?"

"Have any interesting contracts passed through your hands of late, Ignacio?" she asked accusingly. He chuckled softly, amazed at her bluntness.

"If you were simply looking for work there are far simpler ways of doing so."

He never even saw her move, her blade striking out fast, leaving a sharp red line against his cheek.

"I'm not looking for work, you patronizing ass, I'm looking for information, now answer the question!"

He brought his hand up, gently fingering the wound, his fingers came away red, the blood gleaming in the candlelight. "A number of contracts have passed through my hands, perhaps if you narrowed it down?"

"This one would have caught your interest…a target of great political and monetary worth. A man whose death would throw the nation into chaos. Ring any bells, Ignacio?"

It was then he laughed fully, letting the sound spill out of his mouth with a richness that belied the situation. He neatly sidestepped out of her blades reach, knowing that if she intended to kill him, she would have done so by now. Harlow watched him warily as he strode to the washbasin, dipping a rag into the cool water and raising it to his face to dab at the blood.

"It was only a matter of time," he chuckled, "you should have realized this, my friend. Kings never rest comfortably on their thrones. It is what keeps the Crows and others like us in business; I am only amazed it took two years for the first attempt to happen."

"Then you admit that the contract belongs to the crows?" she said tightly, taking a menacing step towards him.

"If it does, I am unaware of such a thing. The order did not pass through my hands, and therefore did not reach any of my agents' ears. If the crows are behind it, it is a sect I am unfamiliar with," he said pragmatically, wincing as he gently dabbed at the cut. When she said nothing he eyed her with a knowing grin. "I take it some well meaning assassin has already tried to dispatch the boy?"

"Yes, even now his blood is being scrubbed from the floors of the palace," Harlow replied coolly. After a pause an idea flashed through her eyes and she quickly asked him, "Would you be able to recognize him if he is a Crow?"

He thought about his answer, letting her squirm a little in payment for the way she had snuck into his room. In the end he nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Yes, all members bear a mark, a brand; the location and design known only to other Crows. If you were so inclined, I could-"

Harlow cut him off with a raised hand, eyes narrowed. "If you think I am foolish enough to bring a master of the crows within the palace walls you must not hold me in very high regard."

"Oh, warden, I hold you in the highest regard. The offer still stands, you know? Should you tire of the life of a noblewomen, the Crows would most dearly welcome someone of your unique talents."

"As flattered as I am, I'll pass. And I do not need your help in identifying the man sent after Alistair," she said sheathing her dagger into a leather belt low worn on her hips. She crossed the room, heading for the window, one eye on him the whole time. As she deftly scaled the wall, swinging one leg over the sill he called out to her, causing her to pause and regard him with impatient eyes.

"And just who _do_ you intend to bring within the palace walls to help with your conundrum?" he asked lightly. She smiled in response, a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, giving her a feral quality.

"A ghost," came her reply before she slipped out into the shadows. When he crossed to the window to trace her progress, Harlow Tabris was nowhere to be found.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:**** Ahhh! exposition kicks my butt, but all this stuff needed to happen, so yeah...I promise a far more thrilling and emotionally charged chapter either tonight or tomorrow. Thank you ll for reading!**

**and I just realized that a part of the story got cut out, fixed now!**

The next morning dawned cold and clear, the sun sparkling off still wet rooftops, causing the whole city to appear as if it were coated in diamonds. Harlow stared out her window enjoying the sight, a soft smile on her lips. In all of her turmoil she had forgotten that Denerim had a sort of stark beauty, one that could still take her breath away. The sound of birds chirping on a nearby tree and the scent of honeysuckle wafting on the morning breeze caused her to sigh in contentment, and she allowed herself this one moment of joy to lull in her to a trance.

"I thought I would never that again," a voice murmured behind her. She gasped and turned around to find Alistair standing some paces away. He appeared to be in far better health than he had the night before; his warm eyes clear and thoughtful, his face newly shaved, revealing the strong line of his jaw.

"Your smile, I mean. A real one" he offered in explanation. Harlow swallowed her nerves, heart still beating hard at the sudden surprise.

"Good morning, your majesty, how can I be of service?" she said politely, dipping into a low curtsey. She watched as his eyes hardened, jaw tight.

"Good morning, _Arlessa_," he said pointedly. Harlow sighed and closed her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose, hoping to ease the growing tightness within her.

"Alistair," she whispered wearily, "must it be this way?"

He looked at her in shock, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to form a response.

"I am not asking for anything from you," she hurried to explain, "I have no illusions on that front. Despite whatever…hopes I may have harbored about a future you and I could have had, I realize now that you view things differently, so do not think that I am after _that_."

"And what hopes were those?" He asked softly, no trace of mocking in his voice, only curiosity. But that was dangerous territory, and of the past, and she had no desire to voice such things now, not when they only had the power to hurt. So instead she neatly sidestepped the question and soldiered on, stepping away to gather the reports that lay strewn across her desk.

"What I am asking for is that we put aside this…this _vileness_ that we seem to regard each other with and try our best to maintain a civil, if not cordial relationship. Is that acceptable to you?"

She awaited his answer, face impassive, but her breath stuck in her throat and her hands shook. He said nothing, simply regarding her with caged eyes. There was a time when she could have looked at Alistair and known every thought flowing through his head, but time and distance had changed that and she no longer recognized his tells. The loss of such knowledge hit her unexpectedly and her eyes fluttered closed as she tried to remain composed.

"You know this is not easy for me," she stated plainly, "but I hope that you can look back on all that we've been through and do me this small favor. Please, Alistair, please just….try."

She waited, and when no answer was forthcoming she let out a weary sigh and began to leave the room, head held high, determined not to let him see how very much she was hurting. When she had reached the threshold he finally spoke, stopping her in her tracks.

"It is not easy for me, either, Harlow," he muttered, turning to face her, palms held outward in surrender, "there is so much I carry with me, so much of it tied up with the memory of you, and not all of it good. But, for the sake of those poor souls who have to live with us while we figure this mess out, then yes, I can try."

Harlow let out a breath she was unaware she was carrying and nodded slightly in acknowledgment. A wry smile tugged at Alistair's lips, and just like that he seemed more approachable, more the man she had known. The effect was not complete, and she was not fooled, but for now, it was enough to loosen something inside her.

"Well then" she said politely, "shall we seek out Eamon and start working on keeping you alive?"

Alistair chuckled softly and motioned for her to lead the way. After she had closed the door, he fell into step beside her, the two walking in companionable silence. When they had reached the great hall, he stopped her with a hand on her arm. She turned to him expectantly, finding a quizzical look had over taken him.

"You said there were other reasons you came back," she stated simply. Harlow shook her head in confusion, not following his train of thought. "Last night, you said that my imminent demise was not the only excuse for your return. That there was a 'public' pretense for your presence. What is it?"

Realization dawned on her and she quickly glanced about, searching for anyone nearby who could listen in. They appeared to be alone in the great hall, save for some servants beating the large banners that hung from the rafters with heavy wooden poles; clouds of dust rising up to dance with the sunlight. Satisfied that their exchange would not be overheard and cause undue panic, she stepped closer to him and lowered her voice.

"You know that the darkspawn attacked Amaranthine, right?" she asked. He nodded dismissively, the news not unknown to him, "It is a long story, one that would take far longer to explain than we have time for. The important thing to take away from it, however, is that the darkspawn are…_evolving_."

Alistair's eyes widened in surprise, and he took a step back, as if putting distance between them would erase her words. She looked at him with understanding, remembering how sick she had felt the first time she had encountered a disciple, hearing speech come from those hideous lips.

"What do you mean, _evolving_? I'm assuming you're not referring to gills or webbed feet," he whispered, mindful of other people in the room.

"Trust me, gills and webbed feet wouldn't be half as terrifying," she muttered, "They talk, Alistair. They use words, form sentences, the whole bit. They have come into a new existence…they are separated from the call of the old gods."

Alistair stared at her for a moment before cursing passionately and running his hands through his hair. "It's too much to hope that you're joking?" he asked wryly, knowing the answer already.

"It's all in this report," she replied, handing him a bundle of papers tied off with a gray ribbon. He took the stack and eyed them warily, as if she had handed him a deadly reptile instead of information.

"We don't have time to discuss this now," he said, his voice pragmatic, "but we _will _speak of this later."

She nodded in agreement and the two continued their journey through the castle, each of them brooding silently over the disconcerting turn of events. Harlow had a leg up on Alistair in that she had spent the past year or so dealing with the fallout of the Architect's mad plan. The at one time sharp and horrifying idea of intelligent darkspawn had faded into sort of a throbbing acceptance; just one more creature she'd have to battle. Alistair had the information for all of five minutes, and he had yet to even encounter one of the disciples. Maker only knew how he was handling it. She sighed wearily, already dreading the moment when he finished her report. Harlow was unsure as to whether he would approve of her decisions…hell, she barely approved of her decisions, but she was unsure as to whether Alistair would look at them with the eye of a king, or the eye of a Grey Warden.

She pushed the unwelcome thoughts out of her head as they arrived at their destination. Alistair swung the heavy doors open, the hinges protesting loudly. He motioned for Harlow to step inside, following close behind and coming to an abrupt stop when he took in his surroundings.

"There's a dead body on the table. Why is there a dead body on the table?!" He cried pointing furiously at the corpse. Harlow rolled her eyes and took one of the chairs neatly arranged around the aforementioned table.

"It's in a suspended state of decay. I needed the assassin to be recognizeable. Don't worry, Alistair, it won't bite," she replied drolly as she began to rifle through her stack of reports. ."

"I'm not worried about it biting. Maker's breath we eat off that! That's just…unsanitary," he said with a shudder, still hovering in the doorway.

"You eat off dead bodies?" A lightly accented voice asked from the doorway. Harlow's face brightened at the familiar sound and she turned to face the bearer.

"Leliana!" she cried in pleasure, rising to her feet. The bard smiled softly in her quiet, unassuming way and strode forward to embrace her old friend.

"My dear, dear friend, I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you!" she lilted, pulling back to regard the elf with warm eyes. "Your hair! It's lovely, it quite suits you, you know? Brings out the delicate structure of your cheeks. Don't you agree, Alistair?"

Alistair coughed uncomfortably and Harlow looked away, both muttering nonsense in an effort to change the subject. Leliana looked at them both in confusion before squeezing Harlow's hands and sitting down.

"Why are you here, Leliana?" Harlow asked quickly, ready to switch subjects, "Not that I'm not glad to see you, but I thought you had returned to Orlais,"

"She did," Alistair said smugly, "at the King's behest."

Harlow looked at Leliana speculatively, wondering exactly what that meant. The bard smiled shyly, her grey eyes shining.

"Alistair sent me to my homeland to act as an ambassador," she explained.

"And a spy?" Harlow added, with a knowing look. Leliana shrugged noncommittally, but her face splitting grin betrayed her.

"The Orlesian's have become a thorn in my tender side as of late. Sending Lei in as my eyes and ears was a rather brilliant idea of mine, if I don't say so myself," Alistair declared happily. Harlow nodded in wonder, thinking it a wise decision, surprised at Alistair having the foresight to think of it. The king shot her a bemused look, clearly pleased with himself and kicked his heels up on the table. When his boot brushed that of the dead man's he remembered his surroundings and quickly lowered his legs with a squeak.

"Well, what do think? Is Orlais behind the assassination attempts?" Harlow asked, hiding her grin with a cough.

"I do not think so, no," Leliana answered slowly, "It is true that that the Empress and her court are…_displeased_ with Alistair's reign, having expected far more upheaval from the circumstances in which he was crowned. They were surprised how quickly the country rallied behind their new leader. He is quite loved by the populace; the commoners adore him."

Alistair preened, appearing every inch the cocky nobleman. Harlow frowned, displeased with this new side of him. Not that she wasn't happy to hear that his subjects were loyal; she was more concerned by his attitude.

"Why does this discount Orlais as a suspect?" Harlow inquired, tearing her eyes from the king's less than humble attitude.

"It is far easier to invade a country when the land is already torn apart by civil war and discontent," Leliana explained, "and far less easy when the citizens are united behind a monarch. Were Alistair to die at Orlesian hands, he would rise to the level of Martyr, a heroic figure for the country to rally around. The Empress deemed it far too risky a chance to take. She all too well remembers the stories of the last time her nation sought to end the Theirin line."

Harlow nodded, satisfied in Leliana's explanation. She had never really considered Orlais a true suspect. From all the information she had gathered, this felt far more personal than mere political gain. She opened her mouth to offer up what little information she had when Eamon strode into the room, flanked by two guards who took up stations at the door.

"My apologies," Eamon muttered before coming to stand behind Alistair, "There was a…disturbance that needed to be dealt with. I hope I have not missed too much."

Harlow looked at the Arl, who was trying very hard not meet her gaze. Whatever the "disturbance" was she had a feeling she was not going to be pleased when she found out. And she would find out, there were far too many troubling events happening in the castle for her to walk about in blind ignorance. But the matter would have to wait, at least for a few hours.

"Not at all, we were just ruling out Orlais as the unseen enemy," Harlow replied diplomatically before turning to the corpse on the table. "Which still leaves the question as to who hired this man, and why."

Before anyone could offer an opinion Zevran strode into the room, his leather armor speckled with blood and a grim look on his face.

"I believe I can help with that," he said gravely. Alistair shot to his feet, murder in his eyes.

"What is _he_ doing here?" he growled, fists clenched to his sides.

"I invited him to join us, Alistair," Harlow explained wearily, wishing she had taken the time to ease him into the idea of Zevran's assistance. The king pinned her with a malicious glare, pain flashing beneath his anger.

"Of course you did," he said venomously, "you have the habit of inviting him to join you in quite a few capacities, don't you?"

Harlow staggered back as if he had struck her. Eamon looked between the two confused, Leliana merely looked pained, and she heard Zev make a threatening growl in Alistair's direction. She ignored them all, eyes fixed in horror on her ex lover.

"How do you know about that?" she whispered.

"Despite what you may think of me, Harlow, I am not quite the idiot you paint me to be."

Harlow closed her eyes and sighed, feeling regret settle into the pit of her stomach. Whatever little amount of peace they had struck between them crumbled as she opened her eyes to meet Alistair's accusing glare.

He knew about Redcliffe…about her and Zevran.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: ****_Mi cara_ is bastardized italian for 'my dear'**

One would think that silence is something intangible, something that is abstract and merely a state of being. It is not so. Silence is very much alive; a living being that shapes and moves to suit its environment. It can be comforting, as soothing as a favorite blanket, or heavy, demanding. Such is the nature of silence. At the moment, it cut through the room, deadly as a blade, leaving old wounds open and raw before it settled around the occupants with a malevolent caress.

Harlow couldn't look away from Alistair's eyes. She could feel the pain stretched tight between them, as if they were bound by a cord of their own making. Memories of that night came rushing back: Morrigan's dark proposal, Alistair's acceptance, and Harlow's solace in unexpected arms. It hit her all at once, and as she stood under the weight of that accusing gaze, she felt her guilt wash away, replaced by righteous anger.

"Your majesty," Eamon murmured, seeking to take the force of the king's gaze off Harlow. Alistair didn't even register the words, so focused was he on her face. "Alistair!"

He slowly turned his head in response, regarding Eamon with the same expression of rage. The Arl blanched but stood his ground and kept his voice even and level. "Obviously the Arlessa and you have a private matter to discuss, but at the moment the threat to your life takes precedence, please set aside your anger and focus on the issue at hand."

Seconds ticked by before Alistair's shoulders sagged in agreement, and he gave a curt nod. Eamon visibly relaxed, relieved at having diffused the tension. Everyone shifted about uncomfortably, returning to their seats and pretending the outburst had not happened. Zevran strode to Leliana, giving the bard a quick peck on the cheek before murmuring a flirtatious and foreign phrase in her ear. She blushed and swatted at him playfully, grinning the whole while. He smiled back before fixing his attention on a still shaken Harlow, a concerned look on his face questioning her well being. She shrugged in response and allowed the Antivan to gather in her into a comforting embrace. Harlow realized her mistake too late as she caught Alistair staring daggers at the display. Zevran, oblivious to it all, pulled back to rest his forehead against hers.

"I have the answers you seek, _mi cara_," he whispered, "but you will not like them."

"Then it will fit nicely into the rest of my day," she joked half heartedly. When Zev did not join her in her mirth she sighed and moved away from him, focusing her attention on the corpse that lay silent on the table. "Do you recognize him? Is he a crow?"

Zevran studied the man, no recognition passing over his features. He grunted in thought before pulling a small blade from his left boot. Before anyone could protest, he sliced the blade along the man's breeches, cutting a deep line. The fabric parted with a sigh, revealing the slightly purple pallor of the corpse's skin. Leliana looked away in disgust, her features wrinkling as if the whole business offended her. Harlow stepped closer, watching with interest as the Ativan gently inspected the skin of the corpse, his fingers probing behind the knee joint, seeking. After a moment Zevran shook his head and stepped away from the body.

"He is not one of us," he said simply, sheathing the knife once more into the depths of his boot.

"Point to Ignacio for telling the truth, I suppose," Harlow muttered offhandedly as she stepped back from the dead man. "You said you had answers? Please enlighten us, and start with why you are covered in blood."

"First I need assurances that our Alistair won't lock me in chains," Zevran replied, leaning against the table, a guarded look on his face, "as fun as that may be, I do not relish the idea."

Alistair leapt at the man, teeth clenched. It was only Leliana and Harlow's hands that held him back.

"Alistair, stop!" the bard pleaded, her muscles straining against his fury. Harlow dug she shoulder against his chest as she felt her feet give way, allowing Alistair to surge further towards Zevran. In the end Harlow knew it was useless, he was twice their size, and he would succeed in reaching the elf and beating him bloody. So she did the only thing that was left to her; she stepped back, cocked her fist, and leveled a punch at his jaw. Alistair hadn't been expecting it, and that was the only reason it worked, he didn't have the proper footing, nor was he braced to take the hit, and down he went. Harlow cradled her aching hand against her chest and loomed over him. He glared up at her and wiggled his lower jaw back and forth, testing for breaks.

"You just hit your king," he said dangerously.

"Did I? Or did I hit a spoiled little boy? You say you're the king? Then act like it!" she snapped. Alistair surged to his feet to stand before her and she didn't so much as flinch. The two stared each other down and the threat of violence loomed heavy in the air. Alistair eventually stepped back and licked blood from the corner of his mouth and pointed at Zevran.

"Keep him away from me," he muttered, voice low and threatening. Harlow said nothing as Alistair stormed out of the room, shoving a guard as he did so. The room let out a collective breath and she turned about to face Zevran. The elf looked at her with a slightly bemused yet placid expression and she calmly strode to meet him, eyes locked, and struck out with an open palm. The crack resounded through the room and Zev slowly righted himself to regard her.

"Don't you ever do that again," she said softly, "whatever feelings you harbor towards that man, you will not taunt him into such a reaction again. Do you understand?" Zev nodded almost imperceptibly, his eyes calm. "Now, tell us what you know."

The Antivan cleared his throat and sat down in a nearby chair, gesturing for the others to do the same.

"I paid a visit to Fort Drakon," he began, "it seems an inmate was about to be released, one that could cause all manner of problems for a certain Arl who shall remain nameless. I was sent there to ensure the man never saw his freedom. Hence my less than attractive appearance, yes? It was upon my exit that I discovered that Fort Drakon was short one prisoner."

Harlow stared at him blankly, clearly not catching some hidden meaning.

"Why yes, Zev, that is usually what happens when one kills a prisoner," she stated sarcastically. Zevran slid her a sly look out of the corner of her eye and she held her hands up in apology.

"I was not referring to the dead man. I was referring to the recently disposed Queen."

"You cannot mean Anora," Harlow said laughing, "she was executed over a year ago." When she glanced about the room for confirmation, she found no one was willing to meet her gaze. "Wasn't she?"

Eamon cleared his throat before speaking, his voice catching as he explained. "Anora was never executed, Harlow. She…Alistair spared her life."

"He pardoned her?" she screamed unable to make sense of all she was hearing. "How? Why? That woman was, at the very least, complicit with her father's schemes and I am not altogether unconvinced that she didn't play a part in them. Why, in the name of all that is holy, is that bitch still breathing?!"

"We could not find proof of her involvement with Loghain's schemes," Leliana said softly, placing a comforting hand on Harlow's shoulder, "only speculation and rumors. There was no reason the landsmeet would accept for ordering her death. Alistair had to settle for life imprisonment, the only concession the landsmeet would allow."

"I cannot believe this!" she said shrugging her friend's arm off, she took in each one of her companions faces and felt her disbelief rise with every one. "You knew this. Every one of you. You all knew and didn't tell me!"

"Please understand, _mi cara_," Zevran soothed, arms up in supplication, "You were in Amaranthine, we thought it best not to trouble you with something you could not change."

"Don't you _mi cara _me," Harlow warned poking a finger against his chest, "you of all people should have told me. And now we have a traitor to the nation running free through Denerim!"

"Now Harlow," Eamon said pragmatically, "we don't know for sure if Anora is behind the assassination attempts."

"But she a damn likely candidate," she countered angrily, "she despises Alistair, and with good reason! The man cut her father's head off in front of her then summarily chucked her off the throne and into prison. She has the motive, and Anora was always very good at winning unsuspecting warriors to her cause."

No one discounted her logic, each warily resigning themselves to the idea. Harlow felt her anger leave her in a rush, leaving her bone weary and utterly exhausted. She ran her delicate hands over her face in frustration and sighed.

"We need to come up with a plan, but I am just too damn tired to do that right now. Place a guard on Alistair for one more night, and assign a food taster to his meals. We'll figure out a way to catch Anora in the morning."

Eamon nodded in accord, and if he was displeased at her issuing orders, he made no sign of it, simply crossing the room to confer with the guards. Leliana gave her a sympathetic smile before rising.

"It will be alright my friend," she said softly, "we have been through worse before." Harlow shrugged and let out a breathy chuckle, unsure as to why she found that amusing. The bard gave her hands a squeeze before gliding out of the room, Zevran trailing behind her. The elf caught her eye, his gaze soft and apologetic. Harlow smiled slightly, a silent agreement that she forgave him his behavior. He gave her a wink before silently slipping out of the room. Harlow watched them go before sinking into a chair and letting out a belabored breath. She glanced at the corpse, lying forgotten on the table.

"Any suggestions?" she asked. If the dead man had any, he kept his own council.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** **wow, Harlow got bitchy in the chapter...**

Harlow let out a moan of delight as pleasure suffused her limbs. If spending the majority of the last three years on the road had taught her anything it was that there was nothing more seductive and alluring than the pure ecstasy that could be found in a steaming hot bath. She trailed her fingers idly through the water, swirls of fragrant oils dancing on the surface. The scent of spearmint and eucalyptus hung heavy in the air, easing the tension she carried with her so much of time. She knew she should she not be indulging in such a luxury, that there were far more important things to occupy her time, but if she had her choice, she would stay in that gilded tub forever; darkspawn, assassins, and infuriating kings be damned.

Eventually the water cooled, sending gooseflesh up her arms and she whined in displeasure. Resigning herself to the fact that her stolen moment of peace had fled she carefully got to her feet and reached for the soft linen that hung nearby. After patting herself dry as best she could she slipped into a waiting robe of deep burgundy, tying the silver cord tightly at her waist. She ached to crawl into bed, slip between the sheets and let the sweet oblivion of sleep claim her, but when she stepped out of the small washroom that connected to her bed chamber, she realized with dawning dread that it was not to be.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her words spaced out and precise. Alistair turned his attention from the fireplace to regard her with hostile eyes.

"It is my castle, I go where I please," he replied.

"In that case, why do you not go to the laundry? I'm sure you will find a far warmer reception there than you ever will in here," she said simply as she strode by him to let open the latch on her window. Alistair's hand came hard around her bicep, stopping her in mid stride.

"Why did you bring him here?" he ground out, breath reeking of liquor. Harlow yanked her arm back, breaking his grip and narrowed her eyes at him.

"You have an assassin after you, who better to seek help from than one who makes his living at it?"

"There are hundreds of other men you could have sought out, why _him?" _Alistair demanded.

"Why? Because I trust him," she replied, turning her attention back to the window. As she pushed the pane open she took a deep breath of the crisp night air and sighed. "And I find that a quality much lacking in people as of late."

Alistair let out a bitter laugh before striding to the desk and picking up a glass decanter of whiskey and poured himself a glass. "Oh Harlow, how I have missed your dry sense of humor, for surely you are joking and not seeking to lecture me on the nature of trust."

And with that barb, Harlow decided she had had enough. She clutched her hands to her chest in disbelief and let her words flow unchecked.

"You're angry at _me?_ I don't believe it! I think only one of us gets to be pissed in this situation, and I have a feeling it's going to be me." Alistair opened his mouth to retort but she didn't give him the chance as she soldiered on with her tirade. "I am sorry that you found out about Zevran, I truly am, but I will not apologize for my behavior that night. Not to you and not to anyone. _You_ left _me_ Alistair, never forget that. You can spin all the pretty tales you want about offering me what you could, but you knew how insulting it was to even give voice to such a thing. But we still had a blight to defeat. I still had to fight beside you every day and sleep on the ground beside you every night. Under those stars I cried myself to sleep knowing that the forever you promised me was _gone_."

"And so you ran to the first warm body you could find?" Alistair countered, throwing his drink against the wall. Shards of light played across the room as the glass fractured and cracked into pieces. Harlow flinched at the sound, but held his gaze. "Spew all the guilt at me you want, Harlow, but we both know that you went to Zevran that night to hurt me."

"You do _not_ get to speak to me of hurt!" she screamed, shoving him hard. He stumbled back but caught himself, eyes blazing. "Not when you spent that night with another woman. Morrigan came to me, told me of her unnatural plan. You have no idea how much I wanted to say yes, to give into the desire that each one of us would come out whole from that battle, but I could not shake the idea that what she was asking for was wrong, and Maker help me, but I could not send you to her. Not after everything we had shared."

"And is it so completely out of the question that I wanted just as fiercely to see us all survive?" Alistair countered, pacing a circle around her. She remained motionless, her eyes fixed on the wall paper before her. "The idea of your body, broken and lifeless on the top of that tower was more than I could bear."

"That was our duty, Alistair," she snapped as she quoted the end of the gray warden oath, "'In death, sacrifice,' it was ours to bear and you sullied it with that evil bitch."

Pain flashed across his face, there and gone in a matter of seconds, his ire returning smoothly. She reasoned it had more to with the reminder that he had strayed from the path of his order than of Harlow's harsh, yet very accurate, portrayal of Morrigan. The two stood silent for a moment, letting her words hang in the air. Harlow's blood was beating through her veins, and though she knew she should stop, she couldn't help put push him farther, poke harder, anything it took to make him hurt as much as she had.

"I went to your room that night," she said musically, taunting him with her words, "seeking companionship from the one person who would understand the sudden condition my life had taken on. And what did I hear as I raised my hand to knock? But the sound of a headboard slamming into the wall, and Morrigan's hideous cry of pleasure."

Alistair closed his eyes and turned his head away, as if doing so would erase the memory from his mind. All it succeed in doing was goading her further on.

"So yes, I sought Zevran out that night, but it had nothing to do with you. That night was about _me,_ and what I needed! That elf you so despise pieced me back together, took care of me in the only way he knew how, and for the first time since the landsmeet I felt loved and cared for. Zevran knew how to be a man that night, and you? You were a coward."

"Harlow, stop it," he threatened, his voice low. She ignored him and stepped close to his face, eyes mocking him.

"Was she worth it Alistair? Did she quiver at your touch? Call out your name to the heavens? Was the betrayal of your brotherhood and your lover worth it?" she screamed.

"I said stop it!" he shouted as he gripped her arms in his hands and swung her toward a wall, pinning her there with undue force. The two stood there, frozen, breath coming in labored gasps. Harlow felt herself breaking inside, all of her tightly held emotions free and trembling on the surface. She knew she would deeply regret her words in the morning, but she couldn't quite bring herself to care, so energized at finally losing control and letting her pain flow.

"I died that night," he said softly, but intensely, "it sickens me what I did, but I did it for _you_. I'd already lost you once, I wasn't about to let it happen again."

Alistair stared down at her, pain and rage etched into the features of his face. It had been her goal, to see that look of hurt and despair, one that she herself had worn for far too long, hung upon his brow. And yet, seeing it now, she could not claim a victory of it, she felt shame at having hurt him so. The part of her that had loved him, and loved him still despite everything, railed at her behavior.

"Alistair-" she breathed, fully intending to offer words of explanation and apology. She would have succeeded but she felt him tense, his hands digging into her arms before he lowered his head and pressed his lips fiercely to hers. Her eyes widened in shock and went deadly still. She could taste the whiskey on him, a bittersweet cloying flavor. It mixed with the heartbreakingly familiar taste of _him_ and she felt herself lean into the kiss, mouth parting in an unspoken invitation. Alistair moaned softly into her mouth, fingers kneading at her flesh.

"Harlow," he whispered breathlessly as they parted. She slowly opened eyes and as her gaze fell on the longing in Alistair's eyes she felt reality rush back at her in a painful surge. Trembling she stumbled away from him, hand rising to touch her still tingling lips. Alistair's face crumbled at the rejection and he held out a hand in a silent plea. Oh how she wanted to take that hand, twine her fingers through his and press herself against his chest, finding home once again in his embrace. But she knew how that story would end, with her heartbroken and hating him, more than she even did now.

"No, Alistair," she said gently. Harlow watched as Alistair's face smoothed out into a placid mask as he drew himself up to his full height.

"Goodnight, Arlessa," he said hoarsely as he strode to the door. She watched him go, holding her breath, unsure as to whether she wanted him to leave or turn around. He took his leave, pausing only briefly to glance over his shoulder, the look on his face so full of regret that she had to close her eyes against it. When she opened them again, he was gone, and she was left alone with the memory of his name on her lips, whispered like a prayer.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Okay this was a very long and very frustrating chapter to write. I thought about dividing it up but each section felt too short to stand alone. Not to mention I really needed to get some of this out of the way to keep the story progressing. **

**Also, I have to give credit where credit is due. Zevran's speech to Harlow is a version of Spike's speech to Buffy in the episode "Touched" of BtVS. It has been rewritten and parsed down to fit my needs but I could not, in good conscious, not point that out. Joss Whedon is amazing, and I could not get Spike's little monolgue out of my mind while writing it. So yeah...**

There is a headache that comes when far too many tears have been cried. It is a hollow sort of ache, as if the pain has already left but your skull remembers its shape and so continues to throb in time with your broken heart.

"Andraste's freckled ass," Harlow muttered as she slumped over her modest breakfast the next morning. She felt wrung out and empty, having cried herself to sleep the previous night, bitter tears soaking her pillow. The morning had brought with it splotchy, puffed skin and a raging headache that would not leave her be. She knew she should get moving, start the day and begin the investigation into Anora's whereabouts and schemes, but she just could not summon the energy to move from the table.

"_Mi cara_, you look positively beautiful," a thickly accented voice chirped from her doorway. She snapped her head up and smiled weakly.

"You're a terrible liar, Zev," she said affectionately. The elf clicked his tongue and shook his head as he strode towards her. Harlow leaned back in her chair and regarded him with bemusement.

"You think because you have suffered a night of loneliness and heartbreak that the aftereffects have altered your appearance to something ugly?" He said, a guarded look in his eyes. She shrugged, suddenly wary as he dropped to one knee in front of her. "You could never be such a thing."

"Zev," she said turning her head away, "you're laying it on a bit thick today, aren't you?"

He caught her chin in his hand and turned it back so that his eyes could lock with hers.

"Harlow," he said softly, "you are the most uniquely amazing, beautiful woman. Never doubt those words. Never let some…pathetic excuse for a man make you feel less than you are, _mi cara_."

She went still as he delicately brushed his lips against hers. It was the barest of contact, soft and simple and anything but chaste. When she pulled back she regarded him hesitantly, unsure of what had taken over him. Never before had her friend acted this way and she had no idea how to respond.

"Zev," she said softly and uncertainly but he held a hand up to silence her.

"I am not here to ask anything of you, my friend. While I would welcome you into my bed and heart without a second thought I have always known that is not the nature of our relationship, yes? As much as it pains, you are truly besotted with that man, I see that clearly. When I offer you affection and pretty truths it is not a means to an end. In fact it has nothing to do with me and everything to do with you. Who you are and what you are. You are the strongest, most caring woman I have ever met. I have seen every facet of you, _mi cara_, the wonderful and the awful. You have faced horrors and heartbreak and _you are still standing_. You saved the world, never forget that. You are one hell of a woman, Harlow."

By the time he had finished she felt tears trace silent pathways down her cheeks. Zevran's words had mended some chasm within her, one that she had used to store every doubt, painful barb, and feeling of "not enough" that she had carried with her since childhood. Never had someone offered such love without expecting anything in return. Her friend had given her a gift beyond price. She searched his eyes before leaning in and returning the kiss in much the same way he had bestowed it.

"Zev, you are a very, very good man," she whispered as she cradled his face in her hands, knowing the words were inadequate in relation to her feelings. The Antivan smiled wryly, his usual charm and flair returning to his face with ease.

"Let us keep that between us, yes? It would not do for that knowledge to get around," he said conspiratorially. Harlow let out a true and unfettered laugh, the first since she had stepped foot in the castle, and the sound rang from the rafters, filling the room with a brightness.

Zevran got to his feet, pulling her with him. He placed a soft hand on her cheek, thumb tracing the delicate line of her bone structure before smiling and taking his leave. She watched him go, happiness and the faint tinge of regret swirling within her.

"Zevran," she called when he had reached the door, "for what it is worth, I treasure the night we had. And I am truly sorry it could not be more."

He gave her a slightly sad smile and nodded.

"As am I, _mi amore_, as am I. But I gave you my oath, I am yours until you see fit, in whatever capacity you desire." And with that he took his leave, quietly shutting the door behind him.

Harlow let the silence settle around her as she strode to the window and pushed the pane open wide. She took a deep, cleansing breath of the fresh morning air and smiled. It was time to let go of the previous night and start the day.

~oOo~

Harlow could hear shouting as she walked through the hallways and she followed the angry voices until she stood outside Eamon's door.

"Lady, I am truly sorry, but there is-" came the muffled rumble of the Arl's voice. He was trying to keep a layer of civility to his words, but Harlow could tell it was a strain.

"I don't want your apologies, shem, I want what was promised to me!" a tart and familiar voice snapped.

"Shiani?" Harlow whispered, drawing back in surprise.

"As I have explained _yesterday_, my lady, the King has made his decision and you will have to abide by that, there is nothing I can do for you or your people," Arl Eamon said tightly.

"Then let me see that pompous jackass so _he_ can tell me to my face why he has forsaken us!"

Harlow raised her hand to open the door, a sick feeling settling in her stomach, but the door flew open and Shiani was unceremoniously shoved out by two guards. The door slammed shut in her face and Harlow watched as Shiani beat upon it with her fists, uttering every curse in every language possible.

"It's nice to see you still have that fire in you, cousin," Harlow said flatly as she regarded the woman with crossed arms. Shiani whirled about, anger melting into surprise when she recognized who stood before her.

"Lo? Andraste, it's really you. Oh cousin! I am so glad you are here!" Shiani cried before throwing her arms around Harlow in a bone crushing embrace.

"Shiani," Harlow wheezed, "it has been too long."

The two stepped back from each other, warm smiles on their faces. It had been over a year since Harlow had seen her cousin, and she was pleased to note that all seemed to be well. The shadow of the brutal rape no longer clouded her features and Harlow was pleased to see that familiar steel bearing of her posture.

"Why are you, here, Shiani? I did not expect to find you screaming your head off in the palace."

She watched as her cousin's face turned dark and bitter and felt uneasiness settle over.

"I'm here because that worthless King of ours still has yet to allocate funds for the reconstruction of the Alienage," Shiani spat.

"What?" Harlow asked dumbstruck, "But-but…he promised! I was there! He gave us a voice in the landsmeet, promised to rebuild what was lost! How is it that almost two years later nothing has been done?"

"He did give us a place on the landsmeet, for all the good it did," Shiani muttered bitterly, "our voices get drowned out by the nobility and our pleas fall on deaf ears. King Alistair has made it quite clear that the restoration of our home is low on the list of his priorities if it is even on there at all."

Harlow felt her stomach roll, sick at this news of such betrayal. She remembered standing beside Alistair on the dais the day he was crowned. Remembered the gratitude and happiness she had felt when he had made promises to her people. It had given her a sense of calm; knowing that, despite what she had lost by doing so, she had made the right choice in naming him King.

"There has to be a mistake, Shiani, something has gone wrong and Alistair is unaware of what hasn't been done. I'm sure once he knows he'll do everything in his power to fix it," Harlow babbled, trying desperately to have it all make sense.

"Once he knows?" Shiani replied with a bark of laughter, "Cousin, the King hasn't been to a landsmeet or council meeting in _months_. He is far too busy enjoying himself with the serving girls or throwing fetes to celebrate some god-awful nobleman's name day."

"Then who…who has been making decisions for the kingdom?" Harlow asked.

"As of late? The landsmeet, bunch of entitled shems squawking on about how _their_ lands and _their_ people are a priority. Eamon tries his best to steer the King towards actual _ruling_ but he can only do so much when he's dealing with viperous nobleman and a leader who can't be bothered to crawl out of a bottle long enough to issue a decree."

Harlow felt herself go numb as she sank to the floor. Things were far worse in Denerim than she had imagined. Eamon had warned her, but she hadn't thought it was this bad. She had imagined that despite the recent flaws in his personal choices he was still acting as _the king_. It was becoming clear that was nothing more than a fleeting hope.

Shiani kneeled next her and asked, rather indelicately, "Cousin, why in the Maker's name, did you make that man king?"

"I had faith in him," she replied dully, "it seems that was a grave error on my part and now my people are paying the price."

The two elven women said nothing for a stretch of minutes, letting the words hang between them. Harlow thought of all that she had learned and felt cold, icy, determination over take her.

"Take me to the Alienage" she said softly, "I need to see this for myself."

~oOo~

Harlow glided through the halls of the palace, her anger fair crackling in the air. She had just returned from the Alienage and there were no words to describe the depth of her rage. Since returning to Denerim she could still see the scars left by the blight everywhere she went, but none was worse than her one-time home. While elsewhere construction and healing had taken over, the Alienage looked much the same as it had when she'd left it behind to seek out the archdemon. Skeletal husks of burned out homes stretched towards the sky, and shard of wood and glass dotted the street. Families huddled under unsafe structures, trying to find shelter in whatever way they could. The water supply was stagnant and fetid, the pump having been damaged by an orge's mighty blow. It had yet to be fixed and the elves were forced to gather water from the market square, paying dearly for the privilege.

Visions of the injustice she had witness danced before her eyes as she sought out the focus of her rage. Servants scurried out her way the minute they caught the look in her eyes. As she rounded the corner that led to the King's room she saw his door open and Melly slip out, a bundle of soiled linens in her arms. Harlow took in the girl's hastily put together appearance and mused hair and felt her rage crystallize into something far worse. Melly glanced up and caught her eye; an evil, self-satisfied smirk on her lips.

"Arlessa," she said with mock politeness. Harlow didn't give her the satisfaction of a reaction, merely shoved past her and wrenched open the door to Alistair's room.

The king stood at his window, clad only in a pair of loose fitting linen breeches. His back was to her and Harlow could see the silver web of scars that covered his torso. She knew the story behind each one, having been there when he received most. In the past she had delighted in tracing them softly with her tongue, taking satisfaction in the way he would shiver in pleasure as she did so. Today she itched to lash out and give him a new one, in her mind he deserved nothing less.

She slammed the door shut behind her and watched him tense at the noise. He turned to face her and she was surprised to see he bore the same expression she did. She glanced down to see that he fiercely gripped a stack of papers in his hand, a gray ribbon trailing between his fingers,.

"What is this, Harlow?" He asked softly, tossing the papers on the ground before them. They scattered on impact and she stared at her lazy script that marked each page.

"It is my report, your majesty," she replied without inflection.

"I am well aware of that. It was a gripping story, quite the page turner. I have a _problem_ with the ending," he said precisely.

"And why is that?" she asked, though she was fairly certain she knew the answer.

"A way to prevent another blight from ever happening again and you killed the man who could make it happen? Have you lost your damn mind?"

"It was a darkspawn, not a man," she said hotly, "are you suggesting we trust them now? The architect was insane and there was no way to know whether his plan would succeed."

"So your solution was to kill him, forever ending the possibility that it could work?" He shouted. "Harlow I cannot begin to tell you how reckless this was. I am _this_ close to stripping you of your command."

"You don't have the authority to do that," she said coldly, "the Grey Warden's are not under your purview. And from what I learned today there isn't much that lands under your purview these days."

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asked, eyes narrowed.

"What is going on in the Alienage, Alistair?" she asked, watching a baffled look come over his face for a brief moment.

"Don't change the subject," he snapped, turning away from her. She grabbed his arm and spun him back around, murder in her eyes.

"I'll change anything I damn well please. Why haven't the elves received any assistance since the blight?"

"That's ridiculous," he muttered, "of course they have."

"Don't lie to me, Alistair, not now. _I was just there!_ It is still utterly destroyed. Nothing has been done to aid those people, _nothing_ and I demand to know why!"

"I don't know why!" he roared "It isn't as if I haven't had a few other things on my mind as of late. "

"Those elves died for you," she said with restraint, "they stood shoulder to shoulder with us and fought darkspawn when they had no obligation to do so. What have they done to deserve such disrespect from you and your court?"

Alistair sighed and slumped his shoulders, striding over to his armoire and yanking the doors open.

"I'll look into, Harlow," he said dismissively as he chose a loose cotton tunic and shrugged it over his shoulders.

"I don't even know why I bother to keep you alive," she said softly, "you're exactly like the rest of them. Some selfish shem who can't see past his own petty pleasure to the suffering around him. I expected better of you Alistair, shame on me for thinking you were a good man."

Alistair regarded her coolly, face a placid mask she couldn't read. He opened his mouth to reply then closed it, a queer look coming over his face. Sweat began to coalesce on his brow and he took a shaky step forward, as if remaining on his feet was becoming difficult. His skin had taken on a sickly yellow cast and his breath was coming in shallow gasps.

"Harlow," he breathed, "I feel….strange."

She barely had a moment to feel surprise before he pitched forward and fell to the floor. Eyes wide, she knelt beside him, cradling his head in her lap.

"Alistair!" she cried, staring into his unfocused eyes. When she got no response she scrambled to the door and screamed for help. Not waiting to see if her plea was heard she rushed back Alistair's side so she could place an ear to his chest. The thready and weak beat of his heart concerned her greatly and she grasped his shirt in her hands, balling the fabric up in frustration and fear.

Something wet and sticky instantly clung to her skin. She jerked her hands back in revulsion and examined her palms. A cloyingly sweet and medicinal smell wafted up to meet her nose and she had a moment to think _Poison_ before dizziness over took her.

Harlow collapsed to the ground, her body shaking as the poison coursed through her veins. Eamon and a few members of the guard burst in seconds later and rushed to the King's side, cries of concern loud on their tongue.

" Don't touch the shirt," Harlow croaked as she felt a wave of nausea over take her, "Poisoned."

"Poison?" The Arl asked incredulously. Harlow nodded as her vision swam and danced before her.

"Find Zevran," she whispered, "he'll…understand…"

She closed her eyes, focusing her strength on fighting the vicious stew inside her. Time ceased to matter as she floated along in an incoherent fog for what seemed like an eternity. Distantly she could hear shouts of concern, and at one point a worried Antivan accent calling her back.

Back? But she didn't want to go back…it was so nice to float here. Who were these hateful people who wanted her to leave?

Harlow settled into her new existence, exhaustion suffusing her limbs. Every now and then a jostle or movement would rip her from her reverie and she would snarl and moan at those who sought to take her from her peace. It wasn't until quite some time had passed that she could feel a voice whispering along her skin, a voice so full of love that she arched into the sound, wanting to wrap her limbs around it.

"Lo-Lo," it caressed, "please don't leave me. I love you."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **_**Mi fiore mortalle**_** is bastardized Italian for "my deadly flower." First off all, thank you to everyone who was followed and faved this story. It means a lot to me. Secondly, this chapter is quite sad. BUT! I promise from now on it will begin to grow to the happy ending I have planned….what happened to Harlow was not something I had set out to write, but the story has taken on a mind of its own and I ended up there. So bear with me, happiness is coming I promise!**

Harlow came back to herself slowly. At first it was just a smattering of sensations; the feel of a callused, gentle hand caressing her, the scent of burning wood. Eventually she discovered the feel of her limbs, the way they stretched out from her being. With such a discovery came pain, the way it would spark and snap through her muscles, causing her to make pitiful sounds. Through it all she could hear the voice, pleading her to stay strong, to live. Until suddenly it quieted, slipping away into nothingness. The shock of its absence is what startled her into slowly opening her eyes so that she could search it out, bring it back to her.

The light surrounding her was dim and shadows danced along the ceiling. She carefully turned her head to find a pleasant fire crackling in the hearth. A cursory glance alerted her to the fact that she was in a sumptuously decorated room, one quite unlike her chambers at Vigil's Keep. She frowned, unsure as to where exactly she was. Surely she should have been in the training yard, Nathanial at her side, barking orders to the new recruits, not lying flat on her back in this lavish room.

"Ah, she wakes," a voice murmured to her left and she snapped her head around, cursing a moment later as the room spun at the sudden movement. As her sight settled she found herself staring at a very handsome elf; a worried expression on his face.

"Zev," she croaked, her voice hoarse and faint, "What happened? Where am I?"

"You were poisoned, my sweet, it was a near thing. I…_we_ almost lost you."

With his words, it all came rushing back to her; the assassination attempts, the screaming match with Alistair, and the way he had kissed her…she felt the memories crash over her and she let out a gasp. Zevran hurried to her side, a worried hand stroking her hair.

"It's nothing," she said hurriedly, "just…remembering. How long was I out?"

"Five days," he said gravely, "it was uncertain as to whether you would ever waken. Eamon was beside himself, and the king-"

"Alistair!" She cried, struggling to sit up, "Is he-"

"He is fine, _mi cara_," Zevran soothed as he gently pushed her back to the mattress, "in fact he is quite well off. Being the dainty little thing you are, the poison spread through your veins faster than his. We were able to heal him of the effects in less than half the time it took for us to revive you."

Harlow let out a relieved breath and closed her eyes. Alistair was alive…_she_ was alive. It was almost too much to ask for. The poison had been wickedly fast acting, seeping into her flesh moments after contact. It was a variety she was unfamiliar with, having had very little use for such things in her life. She preferred to poison through food and drink; viewing it a far easier way to dispatch an enemy.

"It was quite brilliant, you have to admit," she muttered, gazing at the Antivan through half lidded eyes, "a fast acting poison that is absorbed through touch? I have rarely heard of such a thing."

"It is a rare, but not uncommon occurrence," Zevran replied with a shrug, "the plants needed to produce such a thing are scarce and must be boiled down a very specific constituency, otherwise the toxin is useless."

"I do wonder how the shirt ended up in Alistair's closet," she mused, "very few people have access to the King's clothing…only his steward and the…." Harlow's eyes went wide as she tangled out the puzzle. She felt like such a fool for not having figured it out sooner. Zevran regarded her with dead eyes, letting her know he as well had figured out who was behind the deadly attack.

_Melly_. The woman's name hung in the air unsaid, but just as damning all the same. As a laundress she would have had ample opportunity to befoul the shirt, a simple thing really. And of course she had access to Alistair's room, for what guard would deny the King's mistress access to his bed? The most conspicuous evidence of all being her exit from his chamber only moments before.

"It is being taken care of, _mi fiore mortalle_" her fellow assassin murmured malevolently. Harlow nodded, trusting that Zevran's methods of interrogation would net her all the information she could desire.

"I'm assuming you had the antidote handy, otherwise I would not be here?" Harlow said lightly, changing the subject with a teasing smile on her lips. When Zevran did not return her smile she felt her lips falter and her brow furrow. "Zev, what is it?"

"You and Alistair were poisoned with a toxin known as 'banshee's blush,' so named for the way it marks the skin of its victims," he explained softly as he began to

"Skin? Zevran, I don't-"

He held up a hand to silence her, eyes pleading for her to ask no questions. Fear began creep through her and she struggled to remain calm.

"There is no antidote to 'banshee's blush,'" Zev continued as he began to slide the quilt from her torso, leaving her bare save for a thin cotton shift, "and as such it must be drawn to part of the body and expelled if there is to be any hope of the victim surviving. The path it takes in doing so can destroy any tissue or organs in its path."

Harlow heard the slight catch in his voice as he said the word 'organs.'

"Zev," she whispered, voice pleading and fearful.

"The healer's tried their best, yes? But it was too much damage in too short a time. Your organs were shutting down, the poison had to be drawn to a target and drawn out from there. A choice had to be made, Harlow," he said, "and knowing you as I do, I made it. Forgive me, Lo-Lo, but I thought it best."

Harlow watched paralyzed as he softly raised the hem of her shift past her waist, revealing a horrific crimson stain on her skin, stretching from hip to hip. Harlow breathed out shakily, fingers tracing the swirling pattern of scarlet that was such a sharp contrast to the delicate ivory of her flesh. A darkened and raised scar cut across the stain, and Harlow surmised it was where they had drawn the poison out.

"Will I….is it…"

"Permanent? Yes. You will bear that mark until the day you die," her friend replied softly.

"You said there was a choice," Harlow inquired softly, afraid to hear the answer, "What choice was made?"

"Understand, _mi amore_, it had to be drawn away from your heart and lungs, or surely you would have died. The healers suggested your limbs, arms and legs, but I knew it would destroy something inside you to lose them; to not be able to dance with steal and sword, to command and fight as you were born to do…I could not let that be taken from you."

She nodded at the words, a wave of horror washing over her. The idea of her arms, strong and healthy, shriveled into useless knots of skin and bone was painful to think on. To think that she would never again hold a blade or gracefully step into an opponent's guard…it made her shudder.

"Then what was taken from me?" she asked quietly the relief in her voice plain. Zev said nothing but placed a gentle hand on the swell of her abdomen, his fingers gently pushing into the space between her hip bones. Harlow stared blankly at his hand, mind unwilling to comprehend what he was trying to say with such a gesture.

"I am sorry, Harlow, but if you were to live, truly live in body and mind, we had no choice."

Harlow glanced up in time to see a single tear fall from his eye, his face grave and compassionate. It was then that it hit her and she gasped at such a loss. Her fingers curled convulsively around Zevran's, pressing their entwined hands against her skin, as if touch and wanting would erase it all. Great, heaving sobs wracked her body as she mourned a dream she wasn't even aware she had carried. Distantly she felt the bed shift as Zevran gently perched beside her and drew her into his arms. She was so focused on grief that she barely noticed, simply turning her head into his chest to muffle the sounds of her pain.

Through out the night Zevran muttered soothing words of compassion and love, as if offering benediction and repentance for the choice he made. Harlow took comfort in his arms, his solid and familiar presence a balm to her pain. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, Zevran heard the door to her suite open and he glanced up to find Alistair standing hesitantly in the doorway. Harlow made no indication that she had heard such a thing and a quick glance told the elf that she had slipped into slumber.

"She knows," Alistair said softly, a statement more than a question.

"_Si_, she knows," Zevran whispered sadly, his hand slowly stroking the soft silk of her hair.

"Will she…." Alistair closed his mouth, unable to ask such a question. Zevran continued to observe his sleeping friend, watching her eyelids flicker as she dreamt.

"She is not made like us, Alistair, she is far stronger. But she has carried far too much and I worry this will break her." Alistair said nothing, swallowing hard for he knew full well he was the cause of much of that aforementioned pain. "It is up to us then, as those who love her, to make sure she stays whole, yes?"

Alistair nodded before clearing his throat to speak, "They brought _her_ up…I came to fetch you."

Zevran's face took on a hard and decisive edge, all compassion and mercy sliding away into nothing. He nodded slowly before gently slipping out of Harlow's embrace, careful not to awaken his dear friend. Alistair turned away from the assassin as he neared the door, but made no move to follow.

"You are not coming?" Zevran asked quietly and Alistair shook his head.

"I cannot…I understand the need for this, and fully support it, but the truth is I did care for the girl somewhat, and I cannot stand by and watch you hurt her."

The Antivan elf said nothing but let a cold, knife sharp smile spread across his lips.

"My dear king," he said as he exited Harlow's room, "'Hurt' is the least of what I shall do to her."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Sorry for the delay and the short chapter, guys, but I've been quite occupied with prepping for my practical for my licensure exam (which was today and I totally passed by the way! Go me!). There is only one more hurdle to jump and then I'm home free so I will try to update as best I can, but writing has taken a bit of a back seat lately due to this. **

Harlow woke with a start the next morning, her heart pounding as her brain struggled to remember why she felt such loss. As the memory settled into her consciousness she placed a hand on her belly and squeezed, eyes closed tight against the pain. She stretched a hand out, seeking the familiar and comforting warmth of the man who held her close and soothed away her sorrow, but her palm touched only empty air and she opened her eyes in disbelief. Pushing herself up slowly to sit, she glanced about the room, eyes landing on a hunched figure seated near her bedside.

"Alistair," she breathed, shocked to see him. He jerked his head up at the sound, relief naked in his eyes.

"You're awake," he whispered in gratitude. For a moment it seemed as if he would leap from the chair and rush to her bedside, but something in her demeanor stopped him and he coughed to hide the movement. "Zevran is….uh, busy, at the moment, so I thought I would take his post and watch over you."

"And why would I need watching over?" she asked numbly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

"Zevran told me….that you knew. And for what it's worth, I support him in his choice. I mean, as a grey warden the likelihood of it even happening to begin with…"

"It is one thing to have the possibility, how infinitesimally small, and quite another to have it ripped away from you all together," she muttered, a bite of anger to her words. Alistair looked down at his hands in shame, an embarrassed flush creeping up his neck. Harlow sighed and mentally forgave him his misstep, knowing he didn't intend the words to hurt. She shakily got to her feet, hand braced against the bed post to steady herself.

"You've lost something so…I can't even being to imagine, and I thought-" Alistair began, trying to make it better.

"No, you can't imagine," she said softly, no trace of emotion evident in her, "and I heartily suggest you don't try. I don't begrudge Zevran his choice, all things considered; I believe he made the right one. But you cannot know what it is to lose this. That was never a dream of mine, but that does not mean I don't mourn the absence of it."

Alistair watched her with sorrow filled eyes as she slowly made her way to the small bathing chamber that lay just off her room. Harlow turned back to regard him, her gaze somewhat demanding.

"Please tell me you are not morning this with me, Alistair. Because that would be incredibly selfish of you. It's not as if you lost anything so dear."

With those final words she shut the door and leaned back against the wood; a restless sigh escaping from her lips. As she went about the business of her morning routine, drawing strength from the familiarity, she allowed herself to indulge in the fantasy of what it would have been to bear and birth a child. Try as she might, however, she could not keep the edges of daydream from fraying. Every time she tried to picture herself looking after a babe the image turned watery and blurred. The fact remained that she enjoyed her life, took pleasure in using her skills to battle enemies and monsters, to kill with subtlety and grace, knowing that what she did _mattered_. If she had become a mother she would have to give it all up, as a battlefield is no place for a child.

Harlow stared at herself hard in the mirror of her vanity, thoughts swirling in her head, and as she did so she felt something shift and settle within her, removing a layer of pain and grief. This would be just one more thing she would have to move past, but she _would_ move past it and come out the other side whole. With that thought she felt herself sit a little straighter and she began the slow process of healing this emotional wound.

~oOo~

She fully expected Alistair to have left and was quite shocked to find him standing before her bed, a determined look on his face.

"I lost something too," he said quietly as he began to unlace the ties of his tunic, eyes locked with hers, "and while it in no way compares to yours; it has changed my life drastically as well."

Harlow eyed him suspiciously, sure that whatever injury he offered could not come to close to her misery. Morbid curiosity got the better of her however and she remained silent, her demeanor expectant and skeptical.

"In an effort to save what they could the healer's drew the poison to my right side….my liver was badly damaged and I lost a kidney…I'm told that if I keep indulging in drink it will kill me before the year is out," he said bitterly as he lifted his shirt above his head and let the garment fall to the floor. Harlow laughed cold and disbelieving before she threw her arms up in an effort of surrender.

"That's it. That is absolutely _it!_" she cried, "You lose the ability to crawl into the bottom of a bottle and you think to gain my sympathy? What is wrong with you, Alistair? Have all the women and whiskey addled your brain or are you just that much of a lack wit?"

"That's not it at all," he said hastily, hands up in an effort to silence her rage. "Yes, at first, I was selfish and threw quite the tantrum…which has been pointed out to me was highly embarrassing and not at all befitting a man of my age or status. I was so tempted to just continue on as I had, numbing the pain and confusion with whatever or whoever was around…I figured if nothing else it would put an end to my misery. I never wanted to be king, I still don't particularly want to. I carry a lot of anger at you for that, Harlow."

"Not making it better, Alistair," she ground out through clenched teeth, hands balled into fists.

"But seeing you there…barely breathing and pale as a ghost...as soon as I was able I crawled to your side and begged you to stay strong, to live. And when Zevran told me what had to be done, I held your hand and wept, knowing how it would damage you. _That_ was when this attempted poisoning truly affected me."

She watched dumbstruck as he slowly turned around displaying the strong, muscular portraiture of his back to her. Her eyes fell upon his own scarlet stain, chasing tendrils that wrapped about his hip and disappeared into the waistband of his breeches.

"I've hurt you, Harlow," he said simply, he head angled slightly to regard her over his shoulder "in more ways than I can count. And not a word of apology has passed my lips. Yet, despite all that, you still came back, to what I can only imagine is your own personal hell to save my life. You see beyond the cost of things to what can be achieved…I understand now why you put me on that throne. And I understand even more the price you paid placing me there. That is why losing what I did has altered my life forever. You're strength has shamed me into living. I will not choose death by a bottle; it's about time I started living up to the King you made me. After all that you've given me…us…Ferelden, it's the least I can do."

Alistair's declaration was like a spear through her heart, something sharp and sudden, and so unexpected that she had no idea how to respond. Luckily it did not seem that he expected any words to be forth coming, so Harlow prudently kept her mouth shut as her mind scrambled to process this sudden shift in his personality.

After a moment's silence she hesitantly lifted her hand to lightly trace the swirling lines that stamped his skin. She almost laughed as she did so, thinking sadly that no matter how events fell out between them, they would share this until the day they died…forever marked with the same deadly stain. Alistair stood patiently still under her touch, allowing her to explore at her leisure. It was when her delicate fingers brushed against the still healing scar that he turned about, catching her hand in his.

"It is one thing to offering pleasing words of promise, Alistair, it is quite another to follow through," Harlow said softly, trying to maintain an emotionally distant tone. She could see he wasn't fooled, he knew her too well for that.

"Then I shall just have to prove it to you," he said with a slight grin. Before she could respond he swept her a bow and placed a lingering kiss on the back of her hand. She watched him go, dizziness overtaking her…but whether it was from the after effects of the poison or Alistair's newfound passion for life, she could not say.

Harlow crawled shakily into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. Despite it being only mid morning she felt utterly exhausted and knew it would be another day or so before she felt her old self again. As she drifted into a lazy kind of waking slumber Alistair's speech floated through her head.

"…_as soon as I was able I crawled to your side and begged you to stay strong, to live…."_

It was then she realized: Alistair had been the voice calling to her in the darkness, keeping her tethered to this world.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: I figured we would all want to know what became of Melly and the how and the why of her involvement, and voila! Here it is, I personally don't feel a bit of sympathy for the girl. I hope this makes up for the previous, somewhat scattered, chapter. :-)**

_Elsewhere…_

Melly angrily paced back and forth between the walls of her new prison. She was glad to be out of the confines of that filthy, _disgusting_ cell in the castle dungeon but when she had been summarily brought to a sick room on the castle's main floor it left her feeling nervous.

At first she had thought that Alistair had recovered and was asking for her. It brought her a smug satisfaction to think that having suffered such a close call that she would be the first thing on his mind. But when the guards had shoved her inside and barred the door, she found herself alone. It was then that Melly paused to consider the idea that perhaps Alistair _hadn't_ recovered. But it was such a ridiculous notion; Anora had _promised_ her that it wasn't enough poison to actually fell the man…just make him very ill. So ill that that prissy, gangly, _entitled_ elven bitch would try to help.

Ending Harlow Tabris' life had been her true goal. The minute that knife ear had walked in on her and Alistair she knew that all her carefully laid plans with the king would crumble around her. The way Alistair had gazed at her…a way he had _never_ once looked at Melly; she knew that as long as Harlow was in the picture _she_ would be out of it. And she had worked far too hard to let someone battle hardened wench who didn't even know how to be a woman come between her and her rightful place. So when Anora had approached her, slipping her a vial and a proposition she gladly took the chance she had been offered.

Anora had once been her queen and her employer. Melly had thoroughly enjoyed the status and attention that came with being a personal maid to Calin's wife. All of that had disappeared when Loghain Mac Tir and his daughter sought to overthrow the crown and keep it for themselves. When Harlow and her merry band of misfits and criminals had thwarted the attempt Melly found herself summarily demoted to working in the castle laundry…like a _commoner!_ She thought she would perish of embarrassment, working away her life in drudgery and ignominy…that was, until she met the bastard king.

Melly remembered the day she had met him, it was the same day she had met Harlow, though she was quite certain the bitch didn't even acknowledge her presence. She had been ordered to the King's suite, sent to pick up his soiled linens and replace them with fresh ones. There had been rumors abound in the castle about the new liege, how he was a warrior of great renown, one of the few remaining grey wardens, and a bastard to boot. Melly had been unimpressed with it all, blaming him for her recent downturn in status. As she had neared the door that day, she heard muffled voices through the wood.

"I've been called away to Amaranthine," a woman's voice said formally. "Orders have come down that I am to be promoted to commander."

"Is that so?" a man's voice replied bitterly, the King's she had supposed. Melly had no desire to interrupt but the little rodent of a man that was her current employer would have her hid if she dawdled longer than necessary. Taking a deep breath she slipped unobtrusively into the room, eyes downcast.

Neither of the occupants so much as flinched at her sudden presence, so focused were they on each other. Even having no idea what was being discussed Melly could feel the tension in the air. She went about her business, casting a quick glance towards the pair. She was surprised to see an elf in the King's quarters but was even more stuck by how handsome the king himself was. There was no time to dwell on such things; she had a job to do after all. She began to strip the bed, an ear cocked to hear the discussion happening before her.

"Yes, it has been determined that since I was named Arlessa and you so graciously gave the land to the wardens, it would be only fitting that I would oversea our operation in that region," the elf said stoically.

"But now? I've barely settled in here, and I haven't the first clue as to what I am doing," the King, Alistair she recalled his name was, argued.

"I'm sure that is untrue, your majesty, and even it if were you have Arl Eamon, who is more than capable."

"Don't call me that Lo-Lo," Alistair pleaded softly.

"And don't call me that," the elf snapped back in reply. Melly had drawn in a breath at the outburst. Clearly these two had a history, a painful one. "You relinquished the right to that endearment long ago, Alistair."

"That's the real reason why you're leaving, isn't it? Not some grand plan to rebuild our order but because you want to be away from me," the king accused as Melly snapped afresh sheet up into the air, letting it settle gently over the mattress.

"Is it so unbelievable that I would not want to remain in Denerim, constantly reminded of what I lost? Yes, I desperately want there to be distance between us so that I can finally begin to heal, damn you, but how arrogant do you have to be to think that I am running from you?" the elf hissed. "I have never run from anything in my life Alistair, and I have faced far scarier prospects than the idea of suffering your company. You may no longer be a grey warden, but I am. Orders are orders and frankly this is best for all of us."

As Melly turned her attention to placing the clean clothing in the King's armoire she caught Alistair fall to his knees, his hands grasping the elven woman's wrists.

"Please, Harlow, don't go. I need you. We can…I can figure something out, we-"

"Alistair, don't," the elf said softly, her voice watery, "I beg of you. We've said all this before and it is too painful to bear one more time. You've made your choice…do not begrudge me mine."

Melly couldn't help but slyly watch as the elven woman slid out of the King's grasp and strode to the door.

"Harlow, I love you," he said almost desperately. The woman stilled, and sighed.

"I wish that were true, Alistair," she whispered before quickly exiting. Melly gave herself a mental shake and finished up her business. When she turned to leave, she found herself staring straight into the tear bright eyes of the king.

"My apologies, your majesty, I did not mean to intrude," she murmured quietly, quickly falling into a curtsey. When he said nothing she rose and hurried out of the room, pausing only once to take in the overwhelming loss and pain that seemed to envelop the man. As she made her way back to the laundry her mind began to spin out a plan to place her firmly back in the hierarchy of the castle.

After that day it had taken very little work to win her a place in the King's bed. He had been so broken by that blighted elf that he craved any sort of affection and Melly was only too willing to give it. She had been determined to get with child, but despite her best efforts it had not happened. Every month her courses came on she cursed her ill fortune. Having earned the place of the King's mistress had gained her some respect, but she would not be satisfied until he named her mother of his heir. Oh she was not so naive to think that he would marry her, after all her family was not even a twig on a noble family tree, but she was quite aware about how King Alistair felt about siring bastards. Having been one himself he had confessed to her that he would never subject a child to such a life. If she could produce a child from their couplings she would rise to such a status, a status befitting her and all she deserved.

Then Harlow Tabris had waltzed back into her life and ruined everything. So when Anora's agents had sought her out, promising a solution to her problem she had eagerly agreed to meet her former queen. Melly didn't think to ask why Anora would want Harlow Tabris dead, the answer wouldn't have mattered. All she had required was the assurance that Alistair would not perish, and having received such promises she happily set out to complete her task.

As she thought back upon the course of events that brought her to her present predicament she felt herself grow angrier by the minute. Clearly it had all gone wrong, or else she would not be here. No one had seen her leave Alistair's suite, save for that bitch Tabris, but seeing as she would soon be dead it had not mattered. So she was utterly surprised when the guard had burst into the laundry and without a word hauled her off to the dungeon. No matter, Melly had always been a quick witted and calculating woman; she would simply have to come up with a story to explain away her part in this disaster.

Having decided on a course of action she settled into a seated position on one of the many cots placed about the room and began to let her mind spin out a tale. It was then that she noticed the rusty brown shadow that stained the starched linen of the cot. She ran her fingers over the stiff fabric then pulled her hand back in disgust when she realized it was blood.

"Such a simple thing, is it not?" a heavily accented voice purred from across the room. Melly jumped at the sound and stood to face a devilishly handsome elf.

"Who are you and why have I been brought here?" she demanded, back held straight and proud. The elf ignored her and strode to the cot, his eyes lingering over the bloodied frame.

"Such a small, almost dismissive thing that signifies such loss," he murmured queerly as he bent to touch the stain. Melly took a step back in revulsion, certain the man was almost _caressing_ it in some twisted sort of affection. "It is strange, I have seen her bleed far more, and from much more dire wounds, but this was different. It was something less…but far dearer."

She was beginning to lose her patience and opened her mouth once more to demand he answer her queries but when he turned his attention to her and pinned her with a gaze so void of emotion and life, she felt words die still born in her throat. Those woodland eyes held no shred of humanity…they were utterly dead. It was frightening to be regarded under their weight.

"I'm sure you have questions," he said as he stalked towards her causing her to back away in retreat, "I understand. I have questions myself, yes? But I am sorry to inform you that no answers shall be forth coming. At least for you…I am quite certain that I will receive all of mine."

Melly felt her back hit the stone wall and her heart beat faster as the elf advanced on her. Up close she could see the tattoo that traced the graceful line of his cheek bone. She tried to tell herself that he was nothing but an elf, no true danger to her…such thoughts were silenced as he seemed to produce a very long, very thin, and _very_ sharp blade.

"I'll tell you anything you want," she whimpered, "I promise!"

"Of course you will, my dear," he said musically as he lowered the blade to the swell of her breasts and pressed lightly. She hissed in shock and pain as her flesh parted effortlessly and blood trickled across her skin. "But for such a thing to happen, I would need to ask you a question. And I am not in a talking mood."

It didn't take long for her world to become nothing but pain.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Ack! So sorry for the delay in updates! The first two weeks in may are CRAZY for me (far too many birthdays and anniversaries and holidays!). I just wanted to leave a note saying that, despite Alistair's recent actions, do not expect smooth sailing for him and Harlow anytime soon. I have quite a few more pitfalls and painful dealings planned for the two….because I am a very cruel puppet master.**

"And that was all," Zevran said softly, his fingers toying restlessly with a blood soaked rag. Harlow nodded, impassive and impersonal.

"So Melly orchestrated this thinking that I was the intended target, not Alistair," she stated to herself, clarifying the information Zevran had relayed to her.

"For all we know, you might have been, Harlow, but it seems unlikely," he replied absently. "Anora could have wanted you eliminated from the game…what good would it do to send assassins if you were there to slaughter them, yes? If I were in the Queen's position I might have thought the same thing."

"Anora isn't cleaver enough to think of something like that," Harlow said derisively with a snort as she rose to pace about the room. "She's calculating, yes, but let us not forget that all it took was a ragtag group of misfits who had been roaming the countryside to foil her plans. No, she doesn't have the capacity to think that deep into the game."

Zevran said nothing, his eyes fixed on the bit of cloth in front of him. Harlow sighed and knelt before him, hands braced upon his thighs.

"How did you obtain the answers, Zev? It seems like it would be a useful skill for me to have," she said lightly, trying to bring a bit of mirth back to her companion's face. He looked at her gravely, humiliation flitting across his features. Very gently he removed her hands and strode to the fireplace.

"Do not ask me such a thing, _mi cara,_" he whispered softly as he threw the rag into the blaze. Harlow wrinkled her nose in disgust as the smell of heated blood filled the room. "_Si_, you were my pupil and I have taught you every skill you could wish to posses to kill with grace and efficiency, and you have made me proud _mi fiore mortale. _There is no assassin in Denerim, save myself, who is as lovely and ruthless as you…but you do not need to know what transpired in that room. "

"Zev, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you, but-"

"You do not have claim to every part of me, Harlow," he said with a bit of heat as he turned to face her, "there are facets of my life that I wish to remain hidden. Parts of me that would make your blood run cold and you would look upon me with disgust. Who I was in that room, what I'm capable of…it is forever there, yes? Waiting for a chance to rip free. That…that _cagna senza cuore_ deserved every violation I bestowed upon her…but I am horrified that I took such pleasure in it."

Harlow stared at him dumbstruck. There were no words of comfort she could offer, no phrase that would erase his startling confession. It seemed that this little sojourn to Denerim was shaking the very foundation of her life. She had thought with such certainty that she knew her friends and lovers inside and out…but everyday that passed she came to realize that it was not so. Alistair, Leliana, Zevran…none of them were who she thought and it was a quite a revelation to behold.

Zevran looked upon her with hurt and disgust.

"So you see? Even without a detailed description of my ministrations you are horrified with me."

"Zevran, no," Harlow said, rushing to his side, a hand placed comfortingly on his shoulder. "I could never be such a thing…not with you. I had no idea you kept this within you…that you had such loathing for yourself."

"Do not seek to comfort me," he said bitterly, shrugging off her arm, "it rings hollow in my ears."

"Zev," she pleaded, eyes creased in concern, "if I had known….I never would have asked this of you. Never think that you owe me something at an expense to your sanity."

"_Mi cara_," he said with an exasperated sigh, "I would do all that and more for you, with but a crook of your finger. Any of us would, even Alistair, though you do not believe it. We all gave ourselves up to you long ago; you hold our hearts in your hands."

It was too much, and Harlow staggered back. Sure, she had always known that her former companions had looked upon her with fondness and admiration…even love for some, but hearing Zevran declare such blind devotion was overwhelming. She had no desire to carry the weight of such a thing, she was but one person! How is someone supposed to reconcile the fact that powerful men and women look upon her with such belief and fervor?

"I never asked that of you, any of you," she said weakly. Zevran shrugged dismissively.

"Just so, it is what we gave freely, yes? And if I were to teach you that dark part of me, to mold you into a twin of mine…you would lose that spark we all find ourselves driven towards, and I will not allow that, Harlow."

Harlow smiled slightly, sorrow tingeing the corners of her eyes and she cleared her throat, desperately wishing for a change in topic.

"So, what are we to do now? We've dispatched to would be assassins, but Anora remains free somewhere in the city walls," she said lightly as she busied herself by absently stoking the fire.

"Ah, that I could more than help you with," Zevran replied, just as relieved to be back on familiar footing, "before Melly returned to the Maker she gave quite a detailed description of the location in which she met Anora. I believe it to be an abandoned boarding house near the harbor."

"Then I heartily believe it's time to take this little vendetta to her doorstep," Harlow said with mock sweetness, "that bitch owes me a debt, and I fully plan on charging interest."

"While I am always up for your usual gore-induced adventures, _mi cara,_ may I suggest a subtler tactic?" the Antivan said pragmatically.

"Very well," she sighed theatrically, "if you must ruin my fun, we shall do it your way. We'll organize a reconnaissance mission tomorrow night and gather what info we can. Does that meet with your approval, Master Arainai?"

"Oh, do call me Master, I quite like that," he said lewdly and she let herself laugh at the sentiment. It pained her to know that they had quarreled and she was glad to feel the rift mending. Before they could seriously start planning for the following evening, Leliana threw the door to Harlow's room open and poked her head inside, a delighted smile on her lips.

"Do forgive the interruption," she said musically, "but I believe you will want to see this."

The bard left without another word and the two rouges stared after her in surprise before quickly shooting to their feet and racing to catch up with the Orlesian.

The trio ran through the palace hallways, breathless and expectant. Harlow could only guess at what Leliana had in store for them, but as they drew closer to the great hall she could hear the sound of voices raised in shock and outrage. Leliana brought them up to a halt just outside the door way and turned breathlessly to her friend.

"Alistair called a meeting of his advisors," she said breathlessly, eyes alight with joy. She said no more but motioned for Harlow to step into the hall, Zevran close behind. The two elves slipped unobtrusively into the crowd, eyes seeking out the king.

Alistair sat in his throne, clad in the golden armor of the Theirin line. Some nobleman, unknown to Harlow, railed at the king in a voice that was just this side of impertinent.

"Surely his majesty is not implying that the nobility call in the tithes owed to them to see this madness come to fruition!" the man cried. Harlow looked to Zevran, a silent question in her eyes.

"Bann Lyon, from one of the small southern holdings," the elf murmured in her ear. She nodded imperceptibly and turned her attention back to the proceedings.

"Of course not Bann Lyon," Alistair said simply, leaning forward, arms resting on his armored thighs, "I am _ordering_, not implying. And only from those holdings with a fortnight's march of Denerim."

"Your majesty-" the Bann sputtered, clearly offended. Alistair rose to his feet, cutting the man off.

"Its is well within the crown's purview to call in whatever tithe is owed to any holding, I should know. I checked," Alistair said proudly, clearly pleased with having figured out this little tidbit of information on his own.

"Be that as it may, my lord," another voice called out from the crowd, "it is insulting to ask our citizens to toil and sweat for those who are nothing more than thieves and mongrels!"

Harlow watched Alistair's face harden before he strode down the steps of the dais to address the assemblage.

"Thieves and mongrels they may be, but the same could be said of everyone in this room," he said dangerously, "myself included, for my mother was not a part of your precious lines of nobility. This is my edict, gentlemen. See it done."

"This is beyond the pale! I refuse to send my men to slave for a bunch of knife ears," Bann Lyon spat. Even though she had no idea what was transpiring in that room, Harlow felt herself take a step towards the offending nobleman, hands clenched in anger. It was only Zevran's hand clamped about her shoulder that held her in place.

The sound of steel ringing free of a scabbard drew her attention back to the proceedings and she was surprised to find Alistair pointing an elaborate sword at Bann Lyon's chest.

"Do you refuse your King?" he asked evenly, "Decide now."

Bann Lyon backed away shakily, rage etched on his pale face. After a tense moment he bowed and muttered less than sincere apologies. Alistair lowered his blade and swept his gaze across the room.

"It is hereby ordered that all of the western and southern holding send a contingent of ten men each to assist in the restoration of Denerim's alienage. I expect such work to be completed in three months time. I will accept no excuses. You are dismissed," he called out, voice steady and commanding.

Harlow felt the words hit her in a wave of disbelief. She could hear the displeased murmured as the crowd dispersed but paid it no mind, her tear bright eyes focused only on Alistair. Leliana stepped beside her and laid a hand on Harlow's arm, a soft smile playing on her lips.

"It was quite well done, I am pleased you were here to witness it" the Orlesian said softly.

"He did this for _me?"_ Harlow replied incredulously

"Are you surprised?"

Leliana did not wait for an answer before striding across the room to whisper in Alistair's ear. It was then that the man finally realized that Harlow was in attendance and his gaze fell upon her. Harlow could feel soft tears trail down her cheeks as the waves of hope and joy swept through her. _Thank you_ she mouthed at him across the hall and he smiled softly in return before giving her a regal bow.

It did not erase the years of hurt that lay between them, but for the first time since her return, Harlow could look upon Alistair and see the faintest whisper of the man she used to know.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: a little drabble of a chapter…more of a from point A to point B sort of thing. I promise far more excitement in the next installation, hopefully up tomorrow!**

"Bloody…stupid…sodding…" Harlow muttered as she tried to contort herself in an effort to buckle the clasps on her armor. It had been a while since she had worn this particular set and she found herself out of practice in securing it about her frame.

"You do realize wearing that within these walls is almost akin to treason?" an amused voice called out and she spun around to face a grinning Alistair. She smiled back and shrugged; arms still akimbo as she struggled with the clasp.

"Hey, don't knock it," she said with mock disapproval, "this armor got me through quite a few battles…who am I to care if it's Orlesian in make?"

"It's not just Orlesian, Lo-Lo, it's the _Shadow of the Empire,"_ he said with a chuckle as he approached her. Harlow felt herself tense as he gently moved her arms away from their clumsy attempts and replaced them with his hands. "Allow me."

They said nothing for a few minutes as Alistair tugged and buckled the chest plate into place, his hands swinging her arms to ensure that her shoulder guards would not catch.

"Why are you wearing this anyway…I know you have far better sets, what with Master Wade encamped at Vigil's keep," he asked softly as he adjusted a loose strap.

"I wanted to something light," she replied evenly, "something I could move in. It's quite hard to sneak about in clanking chain and plate." Harlow did not meet his eyes, sure that if she did he would hear the lie in her voice. What she said was true, the soft leather did allow her to slink about far more gracefully, but the true reason for her donning this particular set was not something she was about to give voice to. After Alistair's unexpected edict regarding the Alienage Harlow had let herself get swept away in memories. She had remembered those many nights on the road, lying beneath the stars and conversing by firelight. Despite the blood and violence that seemed to seep into her waking life, she treasured those stolen moments of peace with her companions. And so when she had begun to make ready for the night's reconnaissance, she had unthinkingly donned the leather armor as a way to hold those memories close.

She felt Alistair's hands still over a particularly stubborn buckle and she glanced back in concern, only to find him staring hard at his hands.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"No," he said with a confused shake of his head, "I am just having the strangest sense of déjà vu."

Harlow puzzled at his words for a moment before remembering the last time Alistair had placed his hands on this particular armor…only at the time he was hastily helping her out of it.

_"You know I've never done this before_," the memory whispered in her head and she hastily stepped out of his reach.

"Thank you, Alistair," she said softly before turning her attention to the blades she had laid out on her bed.

"You're welcome," he said, completely unaware of her thoughts as he stepped closer to her, eyes drifting to the weapons. "One of those wouldn't happen to be for me, would it?"

"What?" she squeaked, turning to face him in shock.

"One of the downfalls of being king is your swords are never practical," he said sheepishly, "they're so covered in gaudy jewels and gold that it makes it almost impossible to truly use them."

"And why would you need a blade, Alistair?" she asked, dreading his answer.

"Well, I do believe I would be rather useless tonight without one, unless you plan on me using my charming wit to drive back the assassins," he said as he picked up a random dagger from the bed; testing its weight with a gentle thrust.

"_You're_ not going tonight," she insisted. Alistair ignored her as he continued to swing the blade through the air. "Alistair, think! There is no way I am bringing you into the lion's den just have you slaughtered!"

"You forget I am a templar trained warrior, Harlow, I am hardly defenseless," he said angrily.

"I have not forgotten, believe me, but things are different now. You are no longer some nameless warden defeating darkspawn, you are the _King_ and as such your continued safety takes precedence."

Alistair dropped the blade to the bed and turned to face her, his features set and determined.

"And as the _King_ I am ordering you to take me with you."

Harlow ground her teeth together in frustration and closed her eyes, silently counting to ten in her head.

"Please, Harlow," Alistair said after a moment, his voice gone soft and pleading, "I miss it so much. Even when Eamon consents to letting me spar all my guards are too afraid of hurting me so they never put up much resistance. I need to remember what it was like, if only for a night."

Harlow sighed bitterly as she opened her eyes. Seeing his face, the hope so naked in his features, it wavered her resolve and she felt herself give in even as her common sense railed at her.

"Fine," she hissed as she snatched the sword he had been holding out of his hand, "But starfang is mine. Don't touch her."

Alistair's face brightened at the words and his lips stretched into a wide smile.

"You don't share very well, do you?" he teased.

"Not as such, no," she growled as she stomped out of the room to inform Zevran of the change in plans.

~oOo~

Night fell and outside a dilapidated boarding house in Denerim four figures silently watched from the shadows.

"I do wish you had not brought him," Zevran muttered sulkily.

"Not much I can do about it now," Harlow replied wearily. The assassin shrugged, though his body language radiated displeasure and stubbornness. Alistair and Leliana ignored the exchange, their eyes fixed on the bolted door of the building across from them. The group had been watching for over an hour, waiting for some unknown signal from the Antivan elf.

"This is hopeless," Alistair said after a time, shifting restlessly in his borrowed armor, "nothing is happening. I say we just…kick the door down and be done with it."

Harlow rolled her eyes as the assassin next to her let out a string of low and very creative Antivan curses. Alistair narrowed his eyes at the elf and took a menacing step towards him.

"I do understand some of those words, Zevran," he growled.

"Then allow me to explain the others, if only to further your education," Zev replied in response, a deadly purr of warning in his voice. Harlow stepped between the two and placed a firm and commanding hand on their chests.

"Both of you, stop it!" she hissed, "The object of tonight was to be sneaky, something that is damn hard to do when the two of you are indulging in pissing contests!"

The two men continued to glare daggers at each other over her head and Harlow felt a moment's panic that she would forcibly have to separate the pair. Blessedly Leliana drew their attention with a soft gasp.

"Someone is coming," she whispered. Instantly everyone dropped into a crouch, rivalries and machismo forgotten as they surveyed the new comer.

It was a man, but not much else was noticeable as he slowly ambled through the darkened streets. He was nervous, that much was obvious, and Harlow felt herself grin as he jumped at every noise that floated in from the harbor. He eventually came to a stop a few feet from the boarding house's door, glancing about to ensure he was alone.

"Not one built for battle," Zevran murmured in her ear as he took the man's measure, "so perhaps he is one of Anora's puppet masters, yes? The money that finances her schemes, perhaps?"

Harlow nodded in agreement. The unknown man had none of the bulk that warriors acquired over years of battle nor any of the grace rogues wore about them like a cloak. Whoever this was, he was not a man who bloodied his hands. Harlow was about to ask her former teacher what he suggested they do when a shaft of moonlight fell upon the figure's face.

"Is that-" Alistair whispered in surprise as Harlow felt her rage crystallize into a cold fury.

"Bann Lyon," Zevran spat bitterly. "It appears you have a traitor in your midst, dear king. A rather stupid one, to be sure. Were I in his position I would be licking your boots so that you would never see the knife at your back, yes? Tsk, he has played his hand all wrong."

"We can discuss his errors in treason later," Harlow said maliciously as she silently pulled a cunning dagger from a sheath work low on her hip, "right now I have other plans for him."

"Harlow, that was not the plan," Zevran protested as he watched her rise gracefully to her feet.

"Plans change, Zev, or are you not adaptable?" she teased. She watched as the elf stuck his tongue out at her and rose in one graceful motion.

"Oh, _mi cara,_ you know I am able to adapt to whatever situation you require," he said darkly as he drew his own blade. Harlow spared only a moment to let her mind linger on Alistair's grunt of disapproval at their exchange, a feeling of guilt sparking in her. She shrugged the emotion off; dealing with Alistair's jealous ego would have to wait, for at the moment she had far bigger problems to deal with.

Harlow motioned for the others to wait until she had their target firmly in hand and began to sneak up on the unsuspecting Bann who had raised a tentative hand to knock upon the door. She felt a feral smile play across her lips as she glided right behind him and brought the dagger up to cradle the pulse in his throat.

"Please," she whispered, "continue with what you were doing."

Bann Lyon went still beneath her blade and Harlow swore she could heat his heart beat frantically in his chest. He swallowed hard, bring his skin close enough to kiss her dagger and a bead of blood began to slowly trickle down its length.

"Who-who are you?" he demanded, his voice quavering with fear.

"I am none of your concern," she said dismissively as Alistair stepped up to flank her captive on the right, "_he_ on other hand, is."

"Bann Lyon," Alistair said pleasantly as he drew his sword.

"Your majesty! This is-well, this is just uncalled for!" the man sputtered and Harlow laughed.

"Uncalled for? Well, having plotted your liege's downfall, you would be the expert on such things."

Bann Lyon made to retort but his haughty words faded into whimpers as Harlow pressed her dagger harshly against his skin, causing the small trickle of blood to flow unchecked. From the corner of her vision she saw Leliana crouch down before the door and silently begin work on lifting the heavy tumblers of the lock.

"Where is Anora?" Harlow asked the trembling Bann.

"She's not here," he gasped out, voice shaking with fear and Harlow realized he had begun to weep. She curled her lips in revulsion and spun him about to face her. Bann Lyon was an ugly crier; his face gone red and pinched, snot coursing from his nose.

"I don't believe you," Harlow said simply before thrusting him towards Zevran's waiting arms. The elf deftly twisted the man about and let his fist connect roughly with the Bann's temple. He crumpled to the ground immediately, and Harlow kicked him once in the ribs to determine he was down for the count. A moment later Leliana whistled in triumph as she lifted the last tumbler of the lock and rose to her feet.

"Such a waste," Zevran murmured staring down at the limp figure, "he is not strong enough for this life, no?"

"Money and power will drive a man to a great many things," Harlow said thoughtfully, "it is just a matter of figuring out which one tied him up in Anora's schemes."

"Shall I send for a guard to take him back to the castle?" Alistair asked helpfully, but Harlow shook her head.

"We don't have that kind of time, we'll have to take him with us. Zev, Leliana, bind and gag the man, we'll leave him just inside the door."

As the two went to work carrying out her order, Harlow and Alistair laid out a carefully constructed and subtle plan for entering the boarding house, taking into account every possible tactic:

"If it moves, kill it," Harlow said simply as she swung starfang out of its scabbard.

"Right, lots of blood and death, that I can do," Alistair said with a grin as their companions flanked them on either side.

Harlow had a moment of nostalgia wash over her as she watched Leliana's delicate fingers play with the taut string of her bow, a whispered song flowing over her lips. Zevran stepped up beside her and tossed his daggers into the air, catching them gracefully on their decent.

"It is like old times, _mi cara_, yes?"

Harlow said nothing, but felt the smile play along her lips. She thought this part of her life behind her, but standing next to Alistair with her two dearest friends by her side, ready to do battle; she could almost believe that nothing had changed over the course of the past few years.

"Here goes nothing," she whispered before kicking the door open and leaping into the fray.


	15. Chapter 15

Violence is an unrelenting mistress. It can fill you with such lust and drive that it eclipses all else in life. Your blood can sing its siren song in your veins and create a dance with the rhythm of your heart. So imagine how disappointing it can be to fall prey to the seduction only to be met with no opposition.

At her rather dramatic entrance Harlow was quite surprised to find only one half asleep guard stationed at the doorway. He was easily dispatched and Bann Lyon's unconscious form quickly drug inside.

"Well, that was uneventful," Harlow muttered as her gaze swept the dusty room, "who leaves but one guard at the door?"

"Perhaps because only one is needed?" Zevran said darkly as he inspected a groove in the stone work a few feet from them. An audible click followed by a blaze of fire appeared mere inches from the Antivan's face and he hastily stepped away from the flames.

"Traps," Harlow said wearily, "I fucking hate traps."

And indeed there were plenty of the deadly puzzles in their path. They came across not a single soul, but every room they explored was full to bursting with trip wires and triggers. The three rogues labored tirelessly to disarm what they could, and they did a fair turn of it, but despite their best efforts and few injuries were sustained. The worse being a deep laceration across Leliana's upper thigh, the result of Harlow slipping a trigger on a blade trap far earlier than she had intended to. The bard shrugged it off, insisting she was fine, but Harlow could see the strain in her face as she struggled to put on weight on the leg.

After what seemed like hours, the group finally came upon a deep and narrow stairwell leading to the building's cellar. Harlow counted off six separate trip wires and wanted to cry. Wearily they began the slow process of disengaging the mechanisms while Alistair watched on helplessly. He tried to offer words of encouragement and advice but ceased doing so once Zevran threatened to disarm the next trap by throwing the king headfirst into it.

"Finally," Harlow groaned as she stiffly got to her feet, a length of slack wire coiled on the ground.

"If Anora is anywhere in the blasted place, it would be here, yes?" Zevran said wearily as he gracefully stretched and rolled his torso to work out the kinks and soreness.

"Let us hope so, for I do not relish repeating this experience all over again," Leliana said, her voice tight and controlled. Harlow spared a glance at her leg and furrowed her brow in concern.

"Are you sure you are up for this?" she asked gently.

"I am fine, my friend, do not worry about my comfort," Leliana replied with a smile, but Harlow could see the tightness around her eyes and felt a pang of worry for her friend. She turned towards Zevran and let him know with a slight tilt of her head that he was to stay close to the Orlesian bard and keep her safe from further harm.

"Ready?" Alistair asked, his hands gripping the hilt of his sword tight. Harlow nodded and set her feet, body crouched and ready to fight. He pushed the door open and light spilled into the dim corridor as the group rushed in, weapons ready.

They were greeted with a group of twenty men, all shocked to see any sort of intruders. Harlow took advantage of their momentary surprise to press the advantage and immediately swung her blade at the nearest man. After that it was chaos. The sound of angry shouts and clanging metal filled the room, and under it all the screams of the dying filtered through. Harlow shouted out orders, not taking the time to see if they were carried out as she felled one man after another. A lucky hit from an enemy's mace knocked her off her feet and she felt her shoulder burn with pain. She struggled to push herself up but found her right arm useless and limp at her side. Her opponent leered down at her as he raised his weapon to finish the job but was brought up short by a sword bursting from his chest. His face took on a look of utter surprise as he fell to his knees, hands clutching uselessly at the blade. Harlow watched his dissent before looking up to find Alistair standing over her, a hand extended out to help her. She feebly grasped his palm and allowed herself to be pulled upright. Once back on her feet she glanced around and found the battle drawing to a close. Bodies littered the ground and all that remained of their enemies was a lone man, fighting desperately for his life against Zevran. Harlow had utter faith that the assassin could handle the flagging man and searched desperately for Leliana. She found her seconds later, limping triumphantly towards the pair.

"We are victorious!" she cried hoarsely as she fell wearily to the ground, head hanging between her knees.

"Are you alright?" Harlow asked with concern as she noted the bard leg wound dripping copious amounts of blood. Leliana waved off her words with a hand and a grin as she struggled to catch her breath. Off in the distance Harlow heard a choked grunt and dull thud mark the end of Zevran's skirmish.

"And so it is done, and with no sign of the missing Queen," the Antivan said as he strode to join them.

"Which begs the question as to where she is," Harlow said with a frown. A sudden and sharp pain shot through her injured arm and she hissed in discomfort.

"_Mi cara, _ you are injured," Zev said protectively as he rushed to her side.

"It's dislocated," she said through clenched teeth, "nothing to worry over. Do me a favor, drag the Bann down here, I find that I have some question for him."

Zevran gave a perfunctory nod before slipping out to do her bidding. Leliana rose to her feet and sighed.

"I believe I shall follow him, I would like some fresh air to clear my head," she said delicately as she made the slow ascent up to the main floor.

It left Alistair and Harlow painfully alone in the cellar and an uncomfortable silence fell upon them. At a loss for what to say she began to clumsily unbuckle the clasps on her arm with her one good hand.

"Let me do that," Alistair said with exasperation and brushed her hand aside. Harlow watched as he jerked the straps with undue force, his face a mask of anger.

"Why are you so upset?" she asked testily. When no answer was forthcoming she tried to shrug out of his ministrations but was stilled by warning growl from his throat. She grit her teeth and held on to her own rising temper as he roughly stripped her out of the armor. When he freed her injured arm with undue force she gasped in pain and whirled about to face him.

"Ow! What is the matter with you?" she demanded, rubbing her swollen shoulder tenderly.

"_That_ is why I am angry," he said gesturing to her injury.

"You're pissed because I got hurt?" she asked in disbelief, "Are you kidding me? Alistair I've suffered worse, believe me. Maker's sake you've seen me be dealt wounds that would make the strongest warriors cry, why is this so damn upsetting?"

"Because it's my fault!" he shouted, "You got hurt and it was my fault."

Harlow blinked at him in surprise before clearing her throat and very carefully asking, "unless you were wielding the mace how is it exactly that _you_ hurt _me?"_

Alistair looked as if he had a litany's worth of words hovering on the tip of his tongue, but something passed over his face, causing him to close him mouth against them. Harlow raised her eyebrow expectantly, waiting for an explanation but quickly figured out that none would be forthcoming.

"Let me help," he said after a moment and he gently raised her injured arm in his hands. Harlow glared at him but set her free hand against his shoulder and braced her body. The two of them silently counted down from three and then alternately pulled and pushed. A scream of pain tore from her throat as the joint reset and she felt herself tremble. Alistair gently released her and stepped a polite distance away.

"Are you ever going to answer my question?" she asked breathlessly as she massaged the bruised skin around her shoulder.

"Let it go, Harlow," he said evenly as he turned to pace across the room. She was about to press him when she heard a soft click echo across the stone.

"Look out!" she cried as she tackled him to the ground. They fell to the floor a rolled awkwardly as a blast of fire rocketed overhead. Harlow found herself pinned under Alistair's weight and glanced over his bulk to see the last tendrils of fire curl into the air. Silence descended and they both lay shock still, breath coming in uneven pants

"I guess we missed one," Harlow said half heartedly as she felt herself relax. Alistair chuckled a bit and raised himself up on his hands to gaze down on her. It was then that she realized exactly the position they were in and her breath caught in her throat.

It felt so familiar and yet so foreign, to have that weight press down her. She could feel his legs entwined with hers, a knee pressed hard between her thighs. She could see the moment when he came to the same realization, saw the way the shock and the longing slid across his face. If they dare not speak, neither did they dare to move, bodies locked into place as emotions coiled about them.

Slowly, ever so slowly the distance between them began to close and Harlow felt Alistair's breath play along her lips. She closed her eyes and felt her heart race, certain that she should stop him but finding it hard to do so. When she opened them again he was a breath away from kissing her and she was shocked to find that she desperately wanted him to.

"Tsk, tsk your majesty," a sneering voice called, breaking them from their reverie. The two snapped their heads around to find a fully conscious Bann Lyon being shoved into the room. Zevran followed close behind, a highly irritated expression on his face. "Such an indelicate position to be caught out in."

"Shut up, Lyon," Alistair growled, his body tense. Bann Lyon merely smiled malevolently and turned his gaze to lock with Harlow's.

"What would your fiancé think?" the man asked venomously. Harlow stilled under Alistair and slowly turned her head to regard him.

"Fiancé?" she whispered. The sound of outrage and loss that was encompassed in that one word made Alistair close his eyes and swear softly.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Ladies and Gentlmen I give you...ANGST! And yes, little miss E.C. shows up. I didn't want to spend a whole lot of time on creating an OC for reasons that will be apparent as the story progresses, so do forgive me for the easy way out...**

"Get off me."

She hated how weak she sounded. The way her voice caught on the words and trembled; it was as if the sound of her heart breaking anew was pouring from her mouth into a whispered plea. Harlow had refused herself weakness her entire life and was ashamed that such a man brought her so low so as to feel it now.

"Harlow," Alistair said quickly, as if making to explain.

"Get. Off. Me," she whispered. He sighed above her and lowered his brow to rest against the crook of her neck, as if trying to prolong the shattered moment they had shared. Harlow shuddered at the intimacy and began to arch away from the contact, panic setting in as her breath came faster in an effort to remain calm. Luckily Alistair was summarily pulled away from by a very angry Zevran who promptly swung the king into the nearest wall and pinned him there with a hand about his throat and a glare of undisguised hatred.

"I believe the lady said to remove yourself," the elf said softly, his voice gone low and threatening.

"Get your hands off me, Zev," Alistair growled back, striking out with a fist. Zevran deftly dodged the attack and slammed the king back against the stone. He grunted in pain and turned his gaze to look upon Harlow with pleading eyes. "Lo-Lo," he begged, a hand stretched out in supplication.

Harlow slowly rose to her feet at stalked towards the men. A hand on Zevran's arm had the assassin stepping back, allowing her to take his place. Alistair looked at her with a look of such hope that she felt her fists clench of their own volition and she stuck out fast and lethal.

"Don't you _ever_ call me that again," she said softly and deliberately as she stared down at the hunched over man. Taking a minute to let her gaze lock with his, ensuring that he saw every bit of hurt and loathing she possessed, she righted herself before turning her back on Alistair and striding purposefully towards Bann Lyon.

"Wait, I can explain," she heard cried out hoarsely behind her. It stopped her in her tracks, like a dagger to her back, but she refused to turn, certain if she did she would break.

"If he says another word, Zevran, silence him," she said coldly and continued on her path.

"Of course, _mi cara_."

Bann Lyon looked at her with all the smug dignity he could muster, which wasn't much considering he was trussed up like a spitted pig. Harlow narrowed her eyes as she approached before dropping into a crouch and spinning a foot out to sweep his legs from the ground. She took great delight in the crack his skull made on the stone floor and gracefully rose to loom over him.

"Where's Anora?" she asked simply.

"I'll have you arrested!" the man spat, "one such as you assaulting and treating nobility as this! It is criminal!"

Harlow raised her foot and gently placed it against Bann Lyon's throat, exerting just enough pressure to silence his arrogant words.

"Lest you forget, Lyon, I am an Arlessa, _I outrank you_. But that is neither here nor there…considering the mood I'm in you would find it wise to answer my questions."

"Nothing more than a filthy, insignificant, knife ear," he croaked out, throat working hard against the pressure of her foot. Harlow felt a cruel smile over take her as she crouched down to regard him, allowing their faces to rest inches apart.

"Yes, I am a _filthy knife ear_," she purred, "born and bred in the Alienage. I was even to be married there, betrothed a rather sweet, if stupefyingly dull elven man. The nobility tell stories about the hero of Ferelden, about the archdemon and the cult of Andranste… but the story the _knife ears_ tell is a very different tale. It is the story of how one lone elven women, refusing to submit to the vilest deeds imaginable, slaughtered the entire Arl of Denerim's house, with nothing but a pair of daggers. Knife ear I may be, but, if only for your own self preservation, do not ever mistake me for _insignificant_."

Harlow watched dully as the Bann's eyes went wide with fear and he tried to unsuccessfully remove himself from her grasp. She let him squirm about for a moment before releasing him and allowing him to scuttle far away from her.

"Now," she said pleasantly, "let's try that question again: where is Anora?"

"I don't know," he whispered, then shrieked as Harlow took a step towards him, "I swear! I've never…actually seen her, just her lackeys,"

"Is that so? Not high enough in the political line to warrant an audience?" Harlow taunted maliciously, "If that's the case, who _did_ you meet with?"

"Hired men, thugs…messengers she used to pass ciphers between her ranks. No one of import, I swear!"

Harlow chanced a glance back to regard Zevran, fiercely pretending she did not see the man he was restraining. "What's your opinion?"

"I feel the man wishes desperately to hold on to his life, yes? It makes the truth a prudent thing," the Antivan said with a shrug. Harlow nodded in accord before turning her attention back to their captive.

"Alright, Bann Lyon, I believe you. I have but one question left, and trust me when I say a lie will cost you all of your parts, what were you doing here tonight?"

"I was receiving orders…Anora was quite put out at the bast-ahem-the _king_ surviving two assassination attempts…she wanted to ensure that her next plot would succeed. I was to be given a message with instructions on what part I was to play."

Harlow regarded him with narrow eyes before spinning to her feet and beginning a very thorough search of the corpses that littered the room. No one dared make a noise as she did so, everyone far too aware of the temper that was riding her. After coming across empty pockets she finally found what she sought on the sixth man. She broke the seal on the missives and gave them a cursory glance before frowning. Harlow shuffled over to Zevran and tilted the pages in such a way that he could peer at them.

"It ciphered," she muttered, clearly put out at the prospect, "can you make anything of it?"

"My dear lady, I am but a humble assassin…such intrigue is even beyond me. Perhaps our fair Orlesian bard would be capable of cracking such a code," Zev replied after a moment's glance, eyes apologetic. Harlow nodded before tucking the papers away and turning her attention back to Bann Lyon.

"Congratulations, Bann Lyon," she said evenly, "you shall live to see the sun rise. Unfortunately, I am given to understand that the castle dungeon has a less than desirable view of the horizon."

The man sagged visibly in relief, glad to have made in through the interrogation whole and relatively unharmed. Harlow resisted the urge to kick the man in the shins and turned away to look at Zevran with expectant eyes.

"Shall we? I want Leliana to take a peek at these papers as soon as her leg is tended too, and if you could manage to haul that pathetic excuse of a man back to the castle it would be a great help," she said evenly as she made her way to the cellar's door.

"And me?" she heard Alistair call from across the room, a bit of indignation seeping into his voice, "What would you have me do? It is my neck on the line after all."

Harlow didn't even bother to stop as she made her exit, stating her feelings with icy precision as she did so, "I don't give a damn what you do, just do it away from me."

~oOo~

Brandy had never been Harlow's drink of choice, but it seemed to be in no short supply within the castle and so she had sent her maid down to the kitchens with the explicit instructions to bring her the largest bottle she could find. Once the liquor was firmly in her hand she had dismissed her maid and spent the last two hours trying to find a numbness that would overtake her.

When they had returned to the castle Leliana had been spirited away by the court healers and Harlow had been informed that the bard would be unavailable for anything other than rest until tomorrow afternoon. Zevran had disappeared to see to Bann Lyon's imprisonment, leaving Harlow free to seek out the answers to her masochistic questions.

She had stormed into Arl Eamon's bedchamber and harshly yanked the linens from the bed, causing the old man to wake with a start and glance about bleary eyed in confusion.

"Who is she?" Harlow asked softly, the hurt naked in her voice.

"Arlessa, this is most uncalled for!" Eamon sputtered as swung himself out of bed and fumbled for robe that hung nearby.

"Who is she, Eamon," Harlow repeated with considerably more volume. The Arl hesitated only briefly before finishing tying the cord of his robe.

"To whom are you referring?" he asked with feigned ignorance.

"Alistair's blushing bride to be," she hissed as she stalked around the bed.

"How is it you know of that, Arlessa? It has not been formerly announced," Eamon replied as he brushed by her and began to light the few candles placed about the room.

"Don't play this game with me, Eamon, I just want to know," she said bitterly, hands gripping a bedpost with such force she was certain she would snap it.

"Elissa Cousland," he replied after a moment's pause, his back straight and tall under her scrutiny. "The arrangements were made only a fortnight before your arrival. And as Lady Cousland has yet to make her arrival at the castle, such news was yet to be made public until she did so."

Harlow absorbed the words, feeling them hit her like fist to the gut. She remembered meeting Fergus Cousland at Alistair's coronation and being introduced to his younger sister, Elissa. At the time each new noble she had been forced to converse with had bled into one another, but hearing that Alistair was to marry the woman, she could see her features come into stark relief in her mind.

As Harlow recalled, Elissa Cousland had been a great beauty. A young thing of but twenty years with honey colored skin and rich mahogany hair that fell in waves to her slender waist. Harlow felt herself want to wretch when she sought to compare herself with the noblewoman and she hastily cleared her thoughts of such nonsense. As she came back to herself she was surprised to find Eamon had continued on in his speech, unaware of her reaction.

"-will be a few weeks more seeing to the restoration of Highever, but I expect her to arrive now more than three months hence. It is quite a fine match. The Couslands are of old blood and power. An alliance between the two houses would be most advantageous and solidify Alistair's claim on the throne."

It was only then that Eamon turned back to regard her, daring her to intervene where she had no right to do so. Harlow swallowed hard and felt her legs begin to shake.

"Thank you for telling me," she said with carefully civility before spinning on her heel and leaving him to his slumber.

When she had returned to her rooms, she found herself alone and it was almost more than she could take…so she had sent for the brandy and tried with every gulp to calm the screams that wanted to rip free from her throat. She had foolishly thought that Alistair, the Alistair she knew, was slowly returning…his behavior since the poisoning had been sweet and chivalrous towards her, much more the charming chantry boy she had met than the pleasure seeking king he had become. He had allocated funds to rebuild the Alienage, something she never thought she would see come to fruition. It was with such actions that she had unconsciously allowed herself to begin to feel affection towards the man. She had let herself get swept up in memories of their lost love and how good it had felt to know that he was hers.

And now he was to be married…to some well bred noblewoman with power and backing. The landsmeet would be utterly pleased and Harlow would…what? Return to Amaranthine and lose herself in work? Hardening every part of her with battle until there was nothing left but blades and blood and death? It was better than the alternative of sticking around to watch Alistair fawn over another woman, try to build a life with Elissa that should have been _theirs_.

Thinking on such things caused Harlow to be struck with a sudden urge to do something, _anything_, that sit her in abject misery. It was as if the heartache was threatening to rip her open unless she channeled it into something tangible. It didn't matter what so long as she could unleash this pain that suffused her limbs.

She was at a loss as to how to accomplish such a thing when she heard a soft knock at her door. Glancing up wearily she was surprised to find Zevran silently slipping into her room, a compassionate look in his eye.

"_Mi cara,_ it is done as you asked. Have you any other need of me this night?"

Harlow said nothing at first, not trusting herself to speak. But in the end, the image of Elissa Cousland dancing through her mind won out and she closed her eyes.

"Yes…come have a drink, Zev," she said softly, the regret already forming in the words.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: So sorry for the delay folks…had a bit of writers block hit. Thank you again to everyone who has faved/followed/reviewed….it means so much. When I started to write this it was just an idea that I had to get out on paper for my own selfish Alistair-shipper needs, but It makes me very glad that so many people are enjoying it!**

**Also…Harlow does something incredibly stupid and selfish in this chapter. I'm actually quite put out at her right now, but on the same token, I'd prefer for her to not be a mary sue if at all possible. So sometimes our characters must be selfish and hurtful in order for them to be human (or in this case elven)…and her actions will irrevocably change her relationship with one of the men forever. You have been warned…also I will post a translation of the Italian at the bottom, because if I did it here it would be a bit of a spoiler. **

They talked of many things that night….of memories past and rivalries forged. They spoke of Antiva and the Alienage, two places that no longer bore the feeling of home. Dragons and darkspawn, cults and Qunaris, everything but the pain that nipped at Harlow's heels like a mabari. When they had at last exhausted the conversational well, she found she could not outrun her question any longer.

"Did you know, Zev?" she asked softly as she stared hard at the brandy in her glass.

"No, _mi cara_, I did not. Had I that piece of information I would have told you," he said gently. Harlow nodded, grateful that at least her trust in one man had not been so misplaced. "Do I dare ask who drew the short straw in the game of marriage roulette?"

"Elissa Cousland," Harlow said bitterly before finishing off what was left in her glass.

"Ah, _si_…the Lady from Highever. You know the story, yes?"

"Of Arl Howe's treachery and the slaughter of her family? Yes I am well aware…It will no doubt endear her to our fair king to know that he struck the killing blow upon the man," she said grandly as she poured herself another generous dose of brandy. Zevran held his own empty glass out and she reached over to fill it.

"How do you do it, Zev?" she asked with a sigh.

"To what exactly are you referring to, my delectable one?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. The brandy had loosened something in him and he relaxed into the ornate chair, his expression languid with hooded eyes. Harlow regarded him though her drink-induced vision, noticing how every flicker of his gaze and curl of lips seemed to leek seduction.

"How do you bed as many people as you do….men and women both and not….fall in love?" she asked shakily as she weaved around the room.

"Ah, it takes some talent to be sure," he said with a chuckle, "but why ask, _mi bella,_ are you so ready to turn your back on love?"

"I rather think love had turned its back on me," she whispered sadly as she approached her bed. Stopping to lightly trace the carvings that twined their way through the bed posts, she put false cheer in voice and turned her head to regard the elf. "But you! You yourself have never debased yourself to such an emotion and you seem quite content with your life. How is it you do it?"

Zevran looked at her queerly before turning his attention to the fire and muttering wistfully in Antivan, "_Se solo sapeste che io sono tuo, il mia amore."_

"You know, when you speak too fast you make in quite difficult for me to even attempt to translate," she teased before hiccupping, "especially in my….delicate state."

"It is nothing, _mi cara_"he said dismissively before rising gracefully to join her at the bedpost, "but you asked a question, and I shall do my best to answer, yes?"

"Enlighten me," she said grandly as she leaned against the bed post.

"You must understand, I was never taught that love was the grand reward you seem to think it is. Between the whorehouse and the crows I never saw the act of love as anything more than a useful tool, one that could lead you to your next meal or assignment. To be sure it is entertaining, no? There is great pleasure to be found in the act, pleasure that eclipses all else if done properly. How could it not be when so many things in this world are driven by it? Such was another thing I learned; sex and power are one and the same. Treating it as something other is what lands you romantic fools in trouble."

Harlow thought over his words, her mind reeling with the implications. Zevran spoke without heat or emotion of such things, as if it were simply fact of day to day life. It was so tempting to view the world as he did. Love was pain and suffering and vulnerability…and while her dear assassin had suffered his share of pain, never had she seen him vulnerable. Harlow desperately wanted that for herself, to shut off the part of her that never seemed to heal. Vulnerable was for children and the infirm, not a battle hardened rogue who killed with such ruthless grace. And yet…every time she looked upon her former lover's face she felt doubt creep in, set up shop in her bones, and use her as it saw fit.

All was thought in the space between heartbeats, and as she gazed upon her dearest friend, she felt herself step over the precise and decide…no more would she be used in such a fashion, and if it took looking at sex in such a hardened way, well, then so be it.

"As for myself, sex has often been but another weapon," Zevran continued lazily, unaware of her sudden shift in mood, "it affords distraction so that one's prey never sees their death coming. Such practicality is how I have managed, as you say, to never 'debase´ myself to such a thing as love. You ask how I never fall prey to the temptations of love…I treat my partners as amusing distractions, or at the very least, a means to an end, nothing more."

Harlow smiled, false bravado painted on her lips, as she shifted to arch her back into the bedpost.

"Show me," she said wickedly. Zevran stared at her dully for but a moment before realization dawned upon him.

"Harlow-" he began; a protestation on his lips. She silenced it by reaching for him, hand capturing his wrist and pulling him to her. He was unprepared for such a maneuver and was surprised to find himself pressed flush against her.

"I wish to be free of this burden…you were my teacher in the art of death, why can you not be my teacher in this?" she purred as she slid her hands into the blonde cascade of his hair, tangling her delicate fingers in the strands.

"Do not do this, _mi cara_," he whispered, body gone deadly still.

"Why ever not?" she murmured before pressing her lips against his.

For all of his innuendo and blatant sexuality, Zevran was a man who could practice restraint when it was required, and Harlow almost groaned in frustration when he did not return her affections, his mouth remaining tight and closed against hers.

"Zev, please," she pleaded, pulling back just far enough to gaze into his eyes. She was shocked to find sorrow and pain there…and a hint of rage. It was almost enough to break through her brandy-induced haze and have her pulling back, but before she could do so Zevran swore softly and roughly pulled her back to him.

His lips came hard about hers in a crushing kiss that spoke more of possession than passion. Harlow squeaked in surprise before allowing herself to be swept up in the sensation. Zevran's hands rose to tangle in her hair as he deepened the kiss, strangled growls rising from his throat.

Harlow felt herself breaking apart, but from lust or heart ache she was unsure. Some distant part of her knew that this was wrong, that she was but using her friend in an effort to outrun the pain. But she was so far gone in her anger and alcohol that she couldn't bring herself to stop. It was only when her hands began to fumble at the laces to Zevran's breeches did she realize she was crying. The Antivan realized it quickly thereafter as well and instantly stilled. Harlow tried to ignore the tears and soldier on but she felt Zevran's hands come firmly about hers and still her into obedience.

"Harlow, no," he murmured. She looked at him in shock and outrage before trying to break his hold.

"Why not?" she demanded, "have you not always said you welcome me to your bed?"

Pain flashed through Zevran's eyes, followed by a snarl of rage from his lips.

"Yes, _mi amore_, I have said such things. And were I a weaker man I would have succumbed to masochistic seduction…but Andraste help me, I am _will not_ submit to this."

Harlow opened her mouth to protest, to press her position but Zevran silenced her with but a look. Silence fell upon the two and Harlow felt something shift and shatter between them.

"Harlow, you tell me I have never felt the sting of love, as if you know this to be true. For all that you are resourceful and observant you can be wickedly ignorant," he said sadly. "I have loved you since that night we shared in Redcliff. It has been hard, yes? To keep such things inside, but for our friendship and the oath I swore to you, I did what had to be done."

"Zevran," she breathed in shock, a hand rising to rest on her chest in disbelief, "I….I had no idea you felt that way." Suddenly she felt sick inside, realizing how very much she had to have hurt the man with her selfish actions. She was horrified at her behavior and felt the tears start anew.

"I know, _mi amore,_ I know. And it is for that reason only that I cannot hate you for this. But it is too much, yes? Were I to be invited to your bed, I would wish for it to be because you desired _me_ and not someone who has slipped through your fingers. Your grief is driving you towards revenge, my sweet, and I shall not let my heart be shattered in the bargain. Not even for you."

Harlow felt the words beat at her and it all became too much. Everything she had suffered through in the last few days came at her and it was overwhelming. How she managed to stay whole and function was a miracle unto itself, but knowing that her inability to let go of Alistair had caused her hurt the one person who had stood by her side through everything was unbearable. The sorrow over took she and she collapsed to her knees, great sobs wracking her body.

"I'm sorry, Zevran," she babbled over and over, the words coming raggedly in between gulping breaths. After a moment she felt his hand reach down and stroke her hair delicately as he soothed her with whispered words in Antivan. It was then she looked up at him with tear bright eyes and said, "I don't want to love him anymore. It hurts too much."

"I know_, mi cara_, I all too well know," he whispered. She felt the pain grab her once more and she buried her face against his thighs in an effort to muffle the screams of anguish that rose up from her throat.

It seemed an eternity that she knelt there, leeching the pain from her body with her tears. Through it all Zevran remain passive, offering what little comfort he had left, unable to turn away from her even then. Over time her sobs lessened and they were eventually left in a sort of suspended silence, neither willing to break the fragile spell, terrified of what would come next if they did.

In the end it was the creak of the door that ended it, and both turned their heads in surprise to gaze upon the visitor. Harlow peered through her tear filled gaze to find Alistair staring at her with such vile dislike that it took her a minute to remember her position. It was only then that she snapped her head back to take in Zevran's disheveled appearance, his half unlaced breeches, and her on her knees with hands resting about the elf's thighs.

"Well," Alistair spat, "it's nice to know some things haven't changed."

**A/N: **_**Se solo sapeste che io sono tuo, il mia amore. **_** Is bastardized Italian for "If you only knew that I am yours, my love."**


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Okay, I have to admit something….I am truly torn. I swear I had this all planned out in my head. I knew exactly how this story would end, but the damn thing has taken on a mind of its own! I am now torn between three possible outcomes and have NO IDEA which on is best. Which, as you can imagine, makes this quite scary and exhilarating to write…hopefully you will stick with me while these characters overtake my writing and play out their drama for both myself and you. **

Harlow stared down her opponent, grim determination on her face. She took a moment to analyze the strengths and weaknesses to determine what strike would cause the most damage. Having set on a course she stacked with such ruthless anger, planting ten inches of steel deep with her adversaries' chest.

A small smattering of applause echoed through the training yard as the straw dummy swayed on its post. Harlow yanked her blade free before turning to face the assembled guards who had gathered to answer the summons she had posted upon her arrival. It gave her a vague sense of the familiar, and she could almost imagine she was back in Vigil's Keep, training recruits and sparring with friends. How she wished she had stayed in Amaranthine and never set foot back in Denerim, perhaps then none of the disastrous events of the past week would have taken place…of course, Alistair would most likely be dead, a thought that, despite everything, still filled Harlow with icy loss.

After Alistair had stumbled upon the indelicate scene of her drunken despair she burst into tears anew and screamed for him to get out. He had miraculously complied, turning about with all the self-righteous anger her muster and took his leave of the pair. Harlow ran to bar the door him, sinking to her knees in exhaustion when she had done so. It was then that Zevran had lifted her into his arms without a word and gently placed her on the soft cushion of her bed. She had opened her mouth to offer more worthless apologies but he quieted her with a gentle finger across her lips. Harlow shuddered as she remembered the look upon his face…it was as if he had donned a mask so lifeless and void of emotion it was. Whatever emotions were swirling through his head, he kept his own council regarding them and left without a sound. It had taken her quite some time before the blissful ignorance of sleep had over taken her.

When the harsh light of day had awoken her from her bed and chased the last remaining effects of liquor from her system, she was hit with such a feeling of utter despair that she felt as if she would perish from the feeling alone. It was only her maid's light rapping upon her door, reminding her of commitments that pulled her from the bed. If nothing else, Harlow Tabris knew where her duty lay, and she would see it through…even if it slowly killed her from the inside out. After sending her maid to deliver Anora's cipher to Leliana she had forced down food, dressed herself in her most striking piece of armor and strapped her blades to her back. When she looked at herself in the mirror she found herself staring at a stranger… a hollow husk that had been emptied of anything that made one alive. She told herself it was fitting, for she had made into the stuff of legends, and such heroes had no need for foolish things like love and friendship. And considering what she was about this day, she needed to look every inch the mythical warrior the populace claimed her to be.

And so she had come to the training yard; to follow through with her duties to the wardens. It seemed as if years had passed between her posting a notice in the guard's barracks, asking for volunteers wishing to join the Grey, and that morning. She was almost surprised to find that it had been but a matter of days. The threat of Anora's treachery and the her own personal hell had her almost forgetting her secondary task of this expedition, but the world keeps turning, despite whatever tragedies one is suffering.

About twenty men and women in all had arrived that morning, eyes eager with anticipation. She had surveyed the volunteers, certain she would find no more than five that met with her approval, and perhaps three of those would actually be sincere in their desire to join the wardens. The others were here for the thrill of meeting the Hero of Ferelden and given the chance to join an order that had risen to legendary status once more.

After demonstrating her own unique skills she had ordered the guards divided into pairs and watched with a critical eye as they sparred with live blades. A few had raised their eyebrows at the thought, but Harlow insisted knowing that the threat of imminent harm would forced them to fight as they would in the field…when one faced down darkspawn one cannot hesitate from fear.

Ten volunteers were immediately discounted as viable recruits and Harlow mechanically offered them words of encouragement while dismissingly them gently. A few looked put out at the decision but others were visibly relieved at well. It was then that Harlow began to test them against her own blades, wanting to get a feel for them as fighters.

When at last she fought the final man, putting him to the dirt with her sword hovering inches from his throat she heard footsteps approach. Raising a hand to block the morning sun from her gaze she felt her heart drop into stomach as she eyed Alistair walking across the practice field, a hardened look in his eye.

He was dressed for battle, in a suit of shining plate, two long swords strapped tight to his back. Harlow silently groaned as she helped her previous opponent to his feet and motioned that she would be with the guards in but a moment. Turning back to face Alistair, she tried her damndest to appear nonplussed and detached.

"What are you doing here?" she asked dully.

"I had a desire to spar this morning, and seeing as it is my castle I assumed _my_ practice yard would be open to me. Imagine my shock when I find that the Arlessa of Amaranthine had overtaken it," he said sardonically.

"Forgive me, your majesty, I had not realized you would have need of the space this morning," Harlow said with a complacent smile that did not reach her eyes, "we have but almost finished the demonstration portion of the day. If you will give us just a moment we shall leave you to your business."

"Have you now?" he said through narrowed eyes. A calculating look passed over his face before malicious glee lit his features, "in that case, Arlessa, I humbly offer my services."

"Your what?" she asked frowning in confusion. He said nothing but turned to address the crowd of guards that had gathered.

"Loyal soldiers of Ferelden," he called out, his voice regal and light hearted, "you seek to join an order of noble and brave warriors. Do you wish to see just what they are capable of?"

A resounding cheer rose from the ranks and Harlow felt unease settle within her. Alistair turned back to face her, all the mirth slipping from his face once out of sight of the guards.

"Don't do this, Alistair," she warned in a low and pleading voice. He flashed a knife sharp grin at her before he mockingly placed a gauntleted hand on her cheek.

"Oh, I think I shall." It took every drop of pride within her not to flinch away from his touch as he leaned closer to whisper in her ear. "Don't hold back, Harlow...I certainly won't."

She jerked away from him and he let out a throaty chuckle before striding to the open sparring ring. Harlow watched him move and felt herself torn. She knew that he was subjecting her to this ridiculous exercise simply because he wanted her to hurt, and this was the most legitimate way to accomplish such a feat. Part of her reasoned that he would never truly draw blood nor cause her grave injury, but seeing the barely disguised rage in his eyes was enough to make her falter. Had they been alone she would have offered terse explanations and vicious barbs meant to wound his pride, but she did not have the luxury of such a thing. It seemed they would have to work out their mutual heartbreak with sword and shield, not words. Having resigned herself to the idea she wearily strode across the dusty ground to join her opponent.

Each pulled their blades and began to circle each other with assessing eyes. Their audience, oblivious to what was _really_ happening before them called out good natured wages and taunts. Harlow felt the noise fade into a dull buzzing as she concentrated on the feel of her sword in her hand and her feet on the packed dirt below her. It was Alistair who struck first and Harlow scrambled to deflect the blow, worn out as she was by the previous bouts.

Minutes ticked by as blades met in a clash of steel and sparks and the two wardens thrust and parried their aggravation. Neither managed to land a blow on the other, for both were seasoned fighters who had honed their skills side by side those many years ago. In the end it was Harlow who managed to land a strike to Alistair's chest, and that was only through sheer luck for the King's foot had slipped on the dusty ground and he was temporarily thrown off balance. The quartermaster called out the time and the guards roared in approval at her victory. Alistair stared down at the blade resting against his chest before snapping his eyes up to meet Harlow's.

"Again," he growled and Harlow finally felt anger slip inside her.

"Sweetheart, if we're going to fight can we not do it in front of the servants?" she asked with mock sweetness. Alistair narrowed his eyes but stepped back and tilted his head to call out to the assembled men and women.

"You are all dismissed. Commander Tabris will inform you of her decision forthwith."

Grumbles of disappointment and surprise followed the crowd out as they returned to the barracks and their duties. It took but a minute for them to be left alone and as soon as the silence descended upon them, they once again took up a fighting stance, their emotions naked in their eyes.

"How could you do that, Harlow?" Alistair asked as he struck out at her.

"Nothing happened, Alistair," she said through clenched teeth as she caught his blade on hers.

"It certainly didn't look like nothing," he grunted before slamming his shield into her chest, knocking her to the ground.

"You have _no_ idea what transpired in that room," she panted as she rolled away from his sword's down swing before leaping to her feet. "But while we're on the subject of betrayal, let us speak of _yours."_

"I did not betray you," he said as he pressed her with his blade, "I have no intention of marrying _anyone_."

"I'm sure your fiancé and advisors would say different," Harlow muttered before dropping low to sweep at his legs. He fell to the ground and before he could struggle to his feet she pinned his body beneath hers and drew a pair of daggers from her hips. The blades came to cross above his pulse and she raised an eyebrow in question. He glared at her for a fraction before allowing his head to sink back to the ground; a silent message of surrender. Harlow relaxed her blades and sat back upon his thighs, allowing herself a moment to catch her breath.

"I've been trying to get out of that damned engagement for weeks now, Harlow," he said after a time, voice defensive and harsh, "but it is just too fucking difficult. I've managed to beg of the proposals that came before it with various protests…one was too old, another too young…one was found to have ties to Orlais…but Elissa is none of those things and there is nothing I can find that will detract Eamon from his course."

"How very _difficult_ for you to turn away countless offers of marriage," she said bitterly.

"Do not speak to me of difficult Harlow," he said coldly, "you know damn well the reason why I refused each and every one of those women. And you repay me by running to the arms of that whoreson of an assassin."

"If I am to apologize to anyone for last night, Alistair, it will _not_ be to you," she snapped, "Zevran deserves whatever repentance I have to offer. Do not play the injured party in this."

"Why? Because I interrupted your seduction of him? He must have been sorely disappointed to be denied a repeat performance of Redcliff."

"No, damn you, because the man loves me!" she shrieked as she sprang to her feet. "He _loves_ me and I _used_ him in an effort to hurt you. _That_ is why he deserves my atonement."

Alistair stared up at her in shock and she had to turn her face from him, lest he see the tears in her eyes.

"You're lying," he said after a moment, voice uncertain.

"Believe me I was just as shocked as you," she said with a harsh laugh.

"And you? Do you… feel the same?" he asked as he pushed himself to his feet. Harlow turned back to face him in surprise. Whatever response she had been expecting, _that_ had been nowhere near the top of the list.

"How can I?" she cried in frustration, "When, despite my best efforts I still find myself masochistically in love with _you."_

Alistair's shoulders slumped in exhaustion and he sighed wearily. Harlow closed her eyes and wished fervently that she could take back her words and flee from this horrible conversation.

"You understand then," he said softly, "why I have been trying to worm my out from these engagements. I'm sure each and everyone one of them would make me an acceptable wife, but Andraste help me, Harlow, it's still all about you."

"If you are truly turning these women away, then why didn't you marry me when I made you King?" she asked desperately.

"I have a duty, Harlow," he said with a resigned sigh.

"Don't speak to me of duty Alistair…not when you've spent the last year neglecting it."

"What was I supposed to do?" he asked angrily, stepping close to her, "tell the nobility to piss off and marry who I want?"

"Yes! Why did that never occur to you?" she cried.

"You are so _naive_," he laughed darkly, "you truly think they would have stood for that? Had I done that the landsmeet would have been plotting your death from the _moment_ we announced our engagement. For all that I am king there is only so much I can do when I it comes to my own life, and trust me when I say the nobles of Ferelden would rather see me proffer my undying allegiance to _Orlais_ before they would allow an elven queen and half blood heir on the throne."

"So that is it then?" Harlow said, her voice breaking, "There is truly no way for us to move past this."

"Even if there was, I'm not sure we could," he said sadly, "I'm not sure either of us could forgive the other for not choosing them."

Harlow felt herself nod, almost as if she were functioning wholly without thought. She had known this conversation was coming, but knowing did not ease the pain of happening. For what felt like the hundredth time in the span of hours Harlow felt tears course their way down her cheeks. Alistair looked at her with such pain in his eyes before sweeping her up in a crushing embrace.

"I am sorry to interrupt," a monotone voice called out, "but our fair Leliana has sent word."

Harlow turned to find Zevran staring at them impassively, his back straight and rigid. Harlow stepped out of Alistair's embrace and hurried to her friend's side.

"Zev," she whispered, wanting fiercely to fall to her knees in supplication.

"She has cracked Anora's code. Should you wish to see her, she is awaiting your summons," he said lightly, avoiding her eyes by directing his words towards the king. Alistair made a noise of acceptance and Zevran turned to take his leave, eyes sliding to regard Harlow for but a brief moment…but the look of longing in that gaze was like a fist to the gut and Harlow had to look away in shame.

"Come," Alistair said softly from behind her as they watched the elf disappear back into the castle, "we should see what Leliana has uncovered."

Harlow nodded numbly, the only thought on her mind was the bitter knowledge that no matter what she did, she managed to hurt the only two men who had ever dared loved her.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: Cipher 101 time! Okay, so I am by no means a cryptographer, and actually had to do some research on the subject. In the end I chose a fairly simple and common cipher because, frankly, the others are WAY too complicated to explain and I didn't want to detract from the story while my readers attempted to figure out the mechanics behind it (which explains why there isn't much of a description in the chapter). So for those of you that are curious, here's how it works: in the end I chose to use the Keyed Caesar cipher. Basically it's a cipher that creates a new alphabet. You start with a password that is used to crack the code. Let's use "Dragon Age" for now. You start by writing the normal alphabet in a line. You then write the password below it (omitting repeated letters) and the write the remaining letters of the alphabet in order **

**ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ**

**DRAGONEBCFHIJKLMPQSTUVWXYZ**

**It is then merely a matter of swapping the letters. In this example the letter "A" becomes the letter "D." So the phrase "I like Dragon Age" would read "B hbfo Gqdlk Dno."**

**That being said, I refer to it as an Antivan cipher because in my little world, Antiva is very much like Italy, and Caesar was very much part of the Roman empire.**

**Lastly, this chapter sucked to write. Sucked out loud. Very frustrating, and very much just an exposition, so stick with me, lovelies. I promise far more excitement to come! Although I am quite fond of Zev's little outburst at the end. **

**Thank you again to everyone who has taken the time to read, you are amazing! **

"It's a keyed Antivan cipher," Leliana said excitedly from her bed, her face glowing with pride, "it's actually quite simple once you have discovered the phrase that unlocks the alphabet."

"Quite simple she says," Harlow replied sarcastically as she stared at the scattered pages of scribbles and notes that surrounded her friend, "you act as if I had merely taken the time I could have figured this out on my own."

Leliana laughed, her face flushed and bright. Harlow smiled in return, marveling at how her dear friend managed to find such pleasure in life. Here she was; laid up in bed with a nasty wound and she had spent the last three hours breaking a frustratingly difficult code…yet none of it seemed to touch her. Leliana carried with her an inherent light that shone through her very being, and Harlow envied her for such a trait.

"It did take me quite a few missteps before I found the key," she said humbly before handing over a slightly rumpled parchment. "There was a bit of trial and error, but I eventually figured it out. Upon remembering our dealings with the traitorous queen, I recalled that she cared for her father very deeply, and it is most likely his death that has spurred her hatred of Alistair into such viscous deeds."

"You cannot be implying that she used her father's name as the passcode?" Zevran said from his position across the room, voice disapproving, "that is just so amateur, yes?"

"Nothing so simple, I assure you. The answer was 'River Dane.' After that it was a simple matter of rearranging letters and, viola!"

"You are remarkable," Alistair said from behind Harlow's shoulder, his voice full of warmth. Leliana smiled happily before reclining back into the comfort of her bed. Harlow turned her attention to Leliana's looping script and began to read.

With each line she became angrier and angrier. Anora was most assuredly not holding back in her hatred of Alistair, and surprisingly enough, Harlow herself. The ex-queen had rambled on for over a paragraph using the most vile words imaginable to describe the pair. Harlow tried to steel herself to such insults, but it was difficult when one was constantly referred to as a "mongrel slut who spent more time on her back than in the field."

"Maker's breath, she's showing her teeth, isn't she?" Alistair murmured over her shoulder.

"She always did have a way with words, that one," Harlow replied sarcastically as she continued to scan the page. A minute or two ticked by as she poured over the missive and uncovered Anora's deadly plan. When she had finished she sighed wearily and strode across the room to hand Zevran the parchment. Waiting patiently she watched as the Antivan took in the words, outrage and approval warring in his expression.

"It is a good plan, yes?" he said when he had reached the end, "one the crows would approve of. She has learned something from her past mistakes, and for that I do give her credit. As for her hatred of you, _mi cara_, know that there is a special sort of pain awaiting her for even daring to refer to you in such a way."

"I don't need anyone defending my virtue, Zevran," she said with a sad smile, "I am no blushing girl holding fast to my maidenhead, I assure you."

Harlow held her breath, praying desperately for a bawdy and lewd joke to come from her friend, but he remained impassive and distant, simply sweeping her a bow and handing her back the parchment.

"As you say, my friend."

She closed her eyes at the words, knowing that using such a phrase was his way of emotionally detaching from her. The loss of such a thing affected her greatly, but in a much different form than that of Alistair. Where the pain of losing her lover had festered and burned into an ever present ache, the idea of Zevran's friendship disappearing left her with such an all encompassing emptiness. The elf had been her sense of home and stability for over three years, a guiding presence that kept her safe and cared for, even when they were parted. She had never known what it was to lose a friend, not truly, and she felt herself cut a drift without knowing exactly why.

But now was not the time to speak of such things, not when the fate of a kingdom hung in the balance, and Harlow reluctantly turned from her friend to address the others.

"A fete," Harlow said simply, although confused at what exactly the missive referred to, "she plans to off you at some ball you are throwing in three days?"

"Oh Andraste's ass, I forgot about that," Alistair said with annoyance. "It's to celebrate the new trade agreements with Kirkwall. Eamon thought it would foster goodwill if we threw a fete in honor of the newly named ambassador."

"You royals," Harlow said with a shake of her head, "is there anything you won't throw an elaborate party over?"

"Executions," Alistair said instantly and sincerely, "it's considered in poor taste to do so."

"That was a rhetorical question, Alistair," Harlow said after an awkward moment. She watched him blush as he realized how ridiculous he had sounded, and felt a stirring of affection within her. Hastily tamping down such a feeling she returned her attention to Anora's cipher.

"Upon offering Bann Lyon quite the lion's share of riches should he help her to pull this off, she urges him to reply with a list of guardsmen that would easily be swayed to her cause, thus ensuring this attempt succeed," Harlow said thoughtfully, her mind turning over itself as she sought to puzzle out a course of action.

"Then she shall have such a thing," Zevran said as he slowly walked across the room to join her, "it would not do to leave a lady waiting, no?"

Harlow was taken aback by his suggestion but as she replayed the words over again in her thoughts, she quickly realized what he was about. A calculating smile took over her face and she nodded in agreement, impressed at his foresight.

"Let me know when you have the names," she said, "what about the deed itself?"

"Public…and grandiose, it will appeal to Anora's narcissism," Zev said instantly, not a doubt in his mind.

"Do you realize how creepy you two are?" Alistair interrupted a queer look on his face.

"Creepy?" Harlow replied in confusion.

"Yes! You two are plotting an assassination…_my_ assassination _in front of me!_"

"Do you not trust us, my friend?" Zevran asked darkly.

"Her? Yes. You? Absolutely not."

"Afraid I shall finally succeed after all these years?" the elf said with a wickedness that belied his calm exterior.

"Knock it off boys," Harlow cried with exasperation, "it's been three years; could you two at least _try_ to be civil to each other?" No answer came from either man, which was not so much of a shock as Harlow truly wasn't expecting one, but it nonetheless galled a bit. "I swear, one day I'm going to chuck you both in the practice ring and let you battle it out."

"No complaints here," Alistair muttered and Zev replied with an Antivan phrase that Harlow knew well enough not to translate.

Before any other social barbs could be cast Leliana let out a hiss of pain from her bed and Harlow instantly ran to her side. The bard's face was tight with strain, her eyes closed.

"What's wrong?" Harlow asked concerned, her hands fumbling at the quilt that covered her friend's legs.

"It is nothing," Leliana replied with a tight smile, "the numbing spell that was applied this morning has simply worn off. A twinge of pain, nothing more."

"We should leave you to your rest," Alistair said gently, sympathy etched in his features.

"_Si_, you should not have exerted yourself so, my lovely one," came Zevran's input as he gathered up the various pages of notes.

"Stop it, everyone," Leliana pleaded, "I have suffered far worse. Maker's breath I helped to end the blight! This is such a minor injury-"

"The blight is over, Lei," Harlow said firmly, "which means you can afford to actually _rest_ when you need to." When the bard looked ready to protest she shot her a conspiratorial smile and cut her off with a bribe sure to peak the Orlesian's interest. "Besides, if you don't stay off that leg, how are you going to manage to be healed in time for the ball? It would be a shame to sit out _every single dance_ because you did not allow yourself time to heal."

"You are just the most evil sort of person," Leliana replied with mock venom, but the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her.

"Don't you ever forget it," Harlow said with a laugh before kissing her friend on the cheek. "I'll send the healer shortly."

Leliana bid farewell to each of her friends in turn, and Harlow hovered in the doorway as the men took their leave. Zevran had dawdled, clearly trying to avoid her, but Harlow was having none of it.

"Please talk to me," she said softly when he had stepped into the hall.

"I do not think that is wise, _mi cara_," he said as tried to make his way past her.

"Well, I'm entitled to be stupid every now and then," she replied as she grabbed his wrist and swung him back to her, "last night being a stunning victory in such a thing."

"It is still too fresh, Lo-Lo, you understand this, yes?"

"I know, but….I can't just have this _thing_ lying between us. I fear that I will lose you and that is one loss I know I am not fit to bear," she said lamely, furious that her tongue could not adequately articulate her emotions.

"And do you think that such a thing would be bearable for me?" he said, voice tight and controlled. "You are dear friend, Harlow, but you can be so incredibly selfish when it comes to the relationships you foster with others. You speak of yourself…_your _loss, and _your _pain, but what of ours? Myself, and yes, that dim witted idiot of a King; we bear our own share of grief for the choices we've made in regards to you. No dance is ever partnered alone, _mi cara_, you would do well to remember that."

Harlow stared at him dumbfounded. Had her life depended on her ability to form words and speak, she would easily have been struck dead in that moment. Shock coursed through her and it left her unable to stop Zevran's steady walk down the hall and out of her sight. A part of her wanted to rage and shout at the accusation, but it was drowned out by the nagging feeling that perhaps her dear friend had been right.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: Somewhat short chapter…and no, we're not at the ball yet…still a few chapters away from that. Sorry. Fair warning, Harlow gets a bit dark this chapter, it's a side we haven't quite seen of her before. She kind snaps a bit, everything just becoming too much. That being said it's not overly gratuitous on violence, no worse than already has happened really. Just wanted to warn you that she's not super fun this time around.**

**Also! The story officially passed 1,000 VISITORS and 10,000 VIEWS (actually we're at almost 1200, but I didn't check until today….) and I am FLOORED at that number (even though, I know, in the scheme of things it's actually a rather small number, but nonetheless, AWESOME!). Never expected that many hits on this story but I am VERY grateful for it. Thanks to all my loyal readers and lurkers, you all get cookies from me! Delicious metaphorical cookies…. **

**For my readers from Italy: this should have come a lot sooner, but I just wanted to apologize for butchering your language! It's not intentional, I swear, I'm just an American girl trying to get by with what I have, forgive me!**

**Annnnndddd lastly, completely off topic…in the real world, where these characters don't take up my free time, I'm actually in the process of writing an original fantasy novel and am looking for beta readers to offer thoughts and critiques…I'm about 50,000 words in…if any of you lovelies would like to volunteer, please feel free to PM me. Okay no more long ass author's note…I swear. **

The castle dungeons were damp. Every surface was coated with a layer of condensation and the very air pressed against a person, as if the humidity could enter one's lungs and drown you through the very act of breathing. Ever since the deep roads, Harlow had been wary of underground spaces; the absence of fresh air and light far too much a reminder of awaited her in just a few decades time. On the surface it had been easy to forget, what with the wind playing along her skin, the sun kissing her brow, and the smell of life happening around her. But here in the darkness, the knowledge gripped her mind and she was hard pressed not to think of a time that seemed both distant and ever closer as the days ticked by.

Such thoughts only soured her mood further to the point that when she was brought before Bann Lyon's cell she was fit to bursting with the need to lash out at _someone_. The imprisoned noble would make a fabulous target and Harlow took an evil sort of satisfaction in her desire.

"Who's there?" the man called out as Harlow approached the barred door.

"Bann Lyon, I do so hope you are enjoying your stay at the castle," she said sweetly.

"_You_," he said with a sneer as he pressed against the bars, "have you come to mock me perhaps, or do you intend to injure me further?"

"It's early yet, and we have but begun to speak…let's see where the evening takes us, shall we? I may just find time for both." The man spat at Harlow's feet and she let out a dark chuckle, motioning for the guard on duty to approach. "Unlock the cell. Is there somewhere I can question him?"

"You can use the guard's quarters, my lady, it empty at the moment," the man replied helpfully. Harlow nodded in assent and the guard nodded quickly as he pulled a brass key from a ring that hung at his waist. A deft twist and groan of metal had the door swinging open. Bann Lyon exited the cell in as dignified a manner as he could muster and Harlow shook her head at the inherent arrogance of the nobility.

The trio made the short journey from cell to quarters, no sound save the shuffling of feet on slime slicked stone. Just as they reached the door, Harlow felt herself drawn up short by some unseen presence. She quickly turned about and scanned the darkened corridor, but her eyes found nothing out of sorts. Only her intuition told her someone had joined them in the depths of the castle. A gentle current of wind wafted past her face and as a faint, familiar scent invaded her senses she instantly knew who lurked a few steps down. Between one breath and the next she slowly rounded back to her original course and continued into the room. _Let them play at being the rogue_, she thought, _perhaps they'll learn something._

The guard waited for her to pass the threshold before quietly closing the door and taking position unobtrusively against the wall. Harlow motioned for Bann Lyon to sit at a small table that sat just off to the right of the door. Sniffing in disdain, the man did so refusing to meet her eyes.

"We broke your cipher," Harlow said, tossing the translated missive on the table. Lyon's posture betrayed nothing, but the flickering of his eyelids gave away his fear. "I'll give Anora this, for such a traitorous bitch, she's quite good at foresight."

"How _dare_ you speak of the queen in such way? You, who should be on your knees in supplication before your betters!" the Bann raged in protest. Such further insults were cut off by the sudden and very near appearance of a dagger hurtled into the table mere inches from the man's hands. Bann Lyon looked at the blade in shock before glancing up to find Harlow holding another sharp and deadly blade at the ready.

"You were saying?" she asked evenly, the threat clear in her eyes. The man swallowed hard and immediately clamped his mouth shut. "Much better. Now, having discussed this with a man who is _far_ more graceful in this particular dance, we've decided to let Anora believe her little ploy will succeed. She is expecting a missive from you detailing a collection of guards that could easily be swayed to her cause. Such a thing would be easy enough to accomplish on my own, but it occurred to me that your conspicuous absence at the fete could very well tip her off to our plan. And for that _not_ to occur, I find myself in the wretched position of requiring _your_ assistance."

Upon hearing the words, Bann Lyon relaxed back into his chair, a lazy and self satisfied smirk stretching across his waxy features.

"Is that so, Arlessa? Well, without proper motivation I find myself disinclined to assist you."

Harlow laughed and perched on the corner of the table. "Oh, I'm sorry, did I give you the impression that you are in any position to bargain? I apologize, that was quite the error on my part."

"If you do not intend to offer me anything," the prisoner said darkly, his eyes narrowed in anger, "then how, exactly, do you presume to garner my assistance? You, who bound and bled me like a spitted pig? You're out of your mind if you think I'll just grovel at your feet. The king and that…Antivan may praise the ground you walk on, but from what I understand, it's only because you spread your legs to keep them tame."

Harlow felt her hard won self control slip the leash and she lashed out unthinkingly. The sound of Bann Lyon's screams filled the room as she drove the dagger she had been holding deep into the man's hand, pinning it to the table.

"I am getting rather tired of being painted the whore," she growled, "you and your _queen_ seem to think that I have not come by my power and influence honestly. Perhaps when I have finished with you both I'll chuck the pair of you into the deep roads and let you learn firsthand the _exact_ path I took to earn the respect I have."

"Please! Stop…" Bann Lyon whimpered as he struggled against the blade that held him captive.

"The way I see it, you have two options, my lord;" Harlow said, leaning in close, "either you play your part and play it well, in which case the king will strongly petition for exile and _not _execution…."

"Or?" he sobbed, his body trembling from pain and fear.

"Or not only will you die, I will personally round up your wife, your children, and their spouses and execute them for conspiracy and treason as well."

"No!" he begged fiercely, "Please, no! They had no knowledge of this, I swear it. Please do not let my family pay for my crimes."

"Then you agree to my offer?" Harlow asked dully. The man nodded fiercely, tears coursing down his face. Harlow glanced down and spied a golden signet ring on the man's skewered hand. With a grunt she simultaneously pried the dagger free and ripped the bit of metal from his finger. A scream of pain and relief filled the room anew and Harlow rose from the table, turning to address a now incredibly pale guard.

"Lock him up. I'll send a healer forthwith," she said impassively as she strode to exit the room.

As the door closed behind her, muffling the sobs and cried and of pain, Harlow came to a halt and addressed the figure she had felt lurking in the shadows earlier. "Enjoy the show, your majesty?"

"How did you know it was me?" Alistair asked softly as he stepped into the light.

"Your scent," she murmured, staring hard at the ring in her hand. Alistair appeared to be waiting for an elaboration on the statement, but when none was forthcoming he ran a hand through his hair.

"Did you…did you mean that? What you said about his family?"

"Doesn't matter if I meant it; he believed it, that's what counts," she replied with a shrug, eyes never once rising to meet his.

"Maker's breath…you…can be quite scary, Harlow…" Alistair hedged carefully, clearly not wanting to offend, but feeling the need to voice his concern.

"I don't always have the luxury of being otherwise," she said, finally turning to face him, features calm and placid, "I am who I've always been Alistair; you just never had reason to see it." She tossed the signet ring at him and he fumbled to catch it in the dim light. "Take that to Zevran. We'll use it to seal the letter when we're ready."

Alistair said not a word as she took her leave of him, gliding slowly down the hall, the darkness swallowing her once she had gone too far. He felt a cold descend upon him as he thought upon her words and actions, certain that he was losing the woman he had loved to a life of death and pain.

If only he had known that Harlow had barely managed to make it to her chambers before becoming violently ill, her body and nerves sickened at her behavior. Sobs wracked her body as she purged the memory of her vile words and deeds. She fell asleep, curled into a ball on the floor and vainly tried to outrun the nightmares that plagued her well into morning.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Don't know how I feel about this one…but s bit of exposition about the group's mysterious plan needed to happen, and I felt that this conversation needed to happen as well…just wish it had happened more seamlessly, but after five hours of staring at my screen and trying to make it work, this is the best I could do. One more chapter after this then it's party time!**

"Must we do this? It really is just too embarrassing," Alistair pleaded, his cheeks flush with color.

"How is it you have been King this long and have never learned to dance, Alistair?" Zevran asked wearily as he watched the trio of musicians quietly set up their instruments in a corner. They had chosen Zevran's modest room within the castle for this particular lesson, reasoning it was far enough away from the general populace that they would not be intruded upon.

"I can _dance_," the man replied defensively, "just…not very well. And certainly nothing along the lines of what you're asking of me. Can't we just spin about the floor a few times and be done with it?"

"I've explained this, _mon ami,_ for our plan to succeed it must be a dance that will capture our audience's attention, assassins and loyal advisors alike. And trust me when I say the sight of the King partnering an _elf_ in such a dance as this will turn a fair amount of heads."

"Yes, but do _you_ have to be the one to teach me?" Alistair whined, put out at having to do something so intimate with someone he borderline despised.

"Our fair Leliana is still recovering from her injury, and who better to teach the Antivan tango than one whose blood sings with its very nature? Now, come, pretend I am the lovely Harlow and dazzle me with your prowess," Zevran said mockingly, arms held out in readiness.

"Can we please leave her out of this?" Alistair hissed as he roughly gripped the other man's hand in his.

"Such a hard thing to do when I am teaching you to partner her, yes?" the elf said as he wrapped Alistair's arm about his slender waist. He nodded to the musicians and took a breath as the opening bar of the fiery music filled the room.

The sound of strings and drum softly filled the air and wove a tale of passion and desire. The Antivan tango was a dance that spoke of possession and sexual heat, slowly smoldering until it erupted in a burst of frenetic energy and life. Zevran always had a fondness for the dance, finding that it nicely embodied his own verve and passion for pleasure. Yet as the minutes ticked by he began to feel less and less affection for the steps as Alistair proceeded to stumble and stomp his way through the song.

"Enough!" he cried after Alistair had indelicately stepped up on his tender toes for the fifth time. "You have less grace than a bronto, yes? If this is how you dance I can only imagine that you make love like a rutting hala!"

"I'm not quite used to partnering men, Zevran, in dance or otherwise" Alistair growled.

"Thank the maker for small blessings," the elf muttered as he paced about the room. "You are thinking too much, you must let the music fill you, let your heart beat as one with the rhythm. You must feel the strings in your blood and you must treat your partner as if they are your lover."

"I am _not_ treating you as any such thing," Alistair protested, arms crossed against his chest.

"Pity that," Zevran said dryly. "I was not goading you when I spoke of Harlow earlier. As much as it pains me, you will be her partner in this, yes? Then you must think upon her when dancing the steps, otherwise you will continue to be the bumbling oaf you are."

Alistair said nothing but held his hands out in tacit agreement. The Antivan sighed and motioned for the musicians to begin anew as he once again took his starting position.

"She is amazing, no?" he murmured softly as the pair slowly circled about one another, "the strength she carries like a well worn cloak. It is as much a part of her as breathing." Alistair tensed slightly at the words, but Zevran pressed on, determined in his course. "And yet it belies a softness that resides beneath, a facet of her that only the privileged few get to see. It makes one want to treasure her and keep her safe from harm." As the two men executed a simple turn Zevran caught the moment in which Alistair was focusing more on the elf's words than his feet. Suppressing a grin and noting the slight tempo change in music, he pressed his attack further. "The way those eyes, green as emeralds, flash in the moonlight, they haunt you, yes? How often have you longed to lose yourself in their depths as you run a hand through her silken hair." Alistair's gaze became unfocused, and yet, despite such a thing, the man continued to gracefully slink about the room. The pair had reached the crescendo of the song and Zevran lowered his pitch, voice gone throaty and seductive. "Do you long to touch her, Alistair? To feel her soft skin gliding against yours?"

He needed say no more, for Alistair had lost himself in the rhythm of the song, and the two men glided sinuously through the remaining steps, a study in masculinity and desire. It was only when Alistair had bent the elf over his arm, lips hovering at the pulse point of his throat, was the spell broken. The King quickly righted the two and eagerly stepped away, an embarrassed blush creeping up his neck.

"_Brava_, your majesty. You shall do quite nicely," Zevran said softly before turning to dismiss the musicians. Silence crept between them once left alone, and neither spoke, each too lost in their thoughts to do such a thing. Eventually Zevran strode to his meager pack and extracted a bottle of wine from its depths, uncorking it without ceremony and drinking deep. Alistair watched him, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"It's true then," the King said after a moment's pause.

"To what are you referring my dear man?" Zevran asked offhandedly as he sunk gracefully into a nearby chair.

"The way you spoke of her…the things you said; you love her."

The elf stilled instantly, body tense with emotion. "That was not your secret to know," he whispered softly, eyes glued to the bottle in his hands.

"Nonetheless I do."

Quiet once again descended on the men as they puzzled out the implications from such a thing. Alistair felt a war within himself, torn between jealousy and sympathy for the man seated across from him. He all too well knew what it was to love Harlow Tabris from a distance; and yet for a brief shining time he had known what is was for her to return those affections. It was for that simple fact alone that he could not hate the elf; for in the end, he had experienced that state of being, and Zevran had not.

"Sometimes, I envy you so much it chokes me," the Antivan said suddenly, his voice fierce and strained, "to think that despite the pain you put her through, she loves you still. It must be a glorious thing, Alistair, to know that no matter the hurt, her heart is always yours."

"Oh yes, it is a delight to know that the woman despises herself for loving me," he replied bitterly. "Especially when I stop to think that you got the better bargain." Zevran raised his head at that, a confused look on his features. "Over the last year her and I have barely been able to be in the same room without hurling insults at each other…but the moment she unintentionally hurt you, it broke something inside her. Think what you like, but you have a place in her heart, a place far more dear and entrenched than I ever was."

"I do not know who suffers more," Zevran said with a sad chuckle, "you or I? But perhaps it is her, who feels the sting of this the most."

A knock at the door had the two men turning as an elven maid scurried into the room, eyes down cast.

"Begging your pardon, my lords, but mistress Tabris says she's ready for her lesson."

"You're teaching her as well?" Alistair said softly, a hint of anger in his words. He regretted the tone instantly when he saw the flash of pain in the man's eyes. It would hurt Zevran to teach Harlow these steps, to hold her so close and move so intimately with her, knowing that it was but a lesson and not life. Understanding this, he softened his tone but none the less let the warning slip out as the elf rose to leave. "Know this, Zev, if you use this as a reason to seduce her out of her smalls….I'll kill you."

"My dear king, were it not for the fact that it would destroy her, I would have killed you long ago. Is love not grand?" And with that Zevran slipped out to attend his next lesson, leaving Alistair alone with a troubled mind and a heavy heart.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: **_**Mi cuore**_** is bastardized Italian for "my heart." So this is somewhat sad, but I'm honestly really pleased with this installment. After the last few frustrating bits I am thrilled to have found my groove again (you may disagree with me, but I'm happy with it so I'll take what I can get.) **

**Also, in honor of my final test for my licensure tomorrow I threw in a bit of modern cosmetology (wish me luck! If I pass I'm officially a fully licensed cosmetologist! Woot!) What I describe is a braiding method of extensions. It's actually the simplest form and I chose it because it is easily dismantled. Basically you take the extension hair and fold it over your actual hair and braid it down, adding a foot or more of length in minutes. I figured such a thing would be a viable method of hairstyling for the time as horse hair was used for a variety of things in the middle ages. So, ya know, suspend your disbelief for a moment. **

Every young girl dreams of being a princess. Of being clad in silks and lace, hair swept into the perfect coif, a delicate crown of gold upon their head, and most importantly, the arm of a handsome knight held out in chivalric expectation. Every girl imagines they are a princess at heart…well, almost every girl. Harlow Tabris had no such notions in childhood…while the other elven girls were playing damsel in distress and plaiting daisy weeds into their hair, Harlow was learning to throw a blade from ten paces under the watchful tutelage of her mother. When adolescence struck and those same girls traded love tokens under the moonlight, Harlow sparred for kisses, taking her forfeit with breathless delight as she beat boy and after boy. Even if this had not been the case, Harlow's wedding day, a day that by all accounts should have made her feel nigh on next to royalty, ended in bloodshed and blades. So you see, Harlow Tabris never thought herself the damsel in distress, finding it far more fun to do the rescuing than be rescued. She was not the stuff that princesses were made of, being far too steeped in reality than roses.

And yet, there she stood in her suite on the eve of a ball in a gown of deep sapphire silk, the fabric whisper soft against her skin. It was Orlesian in make, the skirt full and long, with silver embroidery chasing the hem in a stylized design of ivy in bloom. The neck line was purposefully cut low, allowing the dove grey damask corset to contort and push at her chest, displaying her assets in a way she was not entirely comfortable with.

"Where did those come from?" she muttered as she poked against the swell of flesh below her collar bone. It seemed as if the machinations of the corset had caused her breasts to double in size. Surely she did not have this much décolletage? She was an elf, for Maker's sake!

"Checking to see if they are still there?" came an amused voice from behind her. She whirled about, a flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck, eyes landing on a very well dressed Zevran leaning against the frame of her door.

"Checking to see if they're still mine," came her tart reply as she took in her friend's appearance. He had been dressed in a velvet doublet of deep burgundy, the slashes on his sleeves showing a rich gold. The breeches were made of the finest doe skin and tucked into boots of quality Antivan leather. He had even slicked his hair back, tying it with a bit of ribbon, leaving his face a study in masculine beauty. "You look fantastic, Zev. I'm sure you will cause quite the scandal amongst the noblewomen tonight."

"Ah, _mi cara,_ causing scandal is something I do every night, _si?_" he said chuckling as he strode closer to inspect her. "But you? You are a vision, Harlow. Truly, it is as if you are made of moonlight, yes?"

"I feel like a fool," she replied in embarrassment as she turned to once again gaze upon herself in the mirror. "How am I supposed to fight in this? I can barely breathe! I'd be far happier in leather and linen. And my hair! I have a horse's mane in there!"

"Ah, I see you let Leliana get a hold of you then. You should have known better my friend," Zev said as he fingered the elaborate quaff piled atop her head. What he said was true; the style was entirely Leliana's fault. Harlow had let the bard sweet talk her into trying a new Orlesian technique known as "plaiting in." Thinking it would be nothing more than a complicated system of braids, Harlow soon found herself with an extra two feet of hair, courtesy of an Antivan mare. Harlow had attempted to be outraged, but when her maid had finally finished plaiting the mane into her own hair, twisting it into a coiled rope braid and attaching a delicate filigree of silver and sapphires, she had to admit the effect was stunning. Surely with her own short style nothing so complicated could be managed and it showed off the graceful sweep of her neck and shoulders.

"How I do miss your sweeping locks, _mi amore_," Zev said wistfully as he stepped back from her, eyes gone soft at the memory.

"Well give them time, I'm sure they'll be back eventually," Harlow said dismissively, "Now come, help a girl arm herself. I have no idea where I'm supposed to hide a blade in this blasted thing."

Zevran hesitantly followed her to her weapons chest, a withdrawn look about his face. Harlow was too focused on her task to notice and began handing the elf blade after blade as she rummaged through her stock.

"Time…yes, it is actually a topic I wanted to discuss with you," he said softly as he began laying out the weapons on Harlow's bed.

"What did you want to discuss? Are you worried the timing will be off? Zev, we've gone over the plan a hundred times. Even with Alistair's ineptitude on the dance floor we'll be fine. Here, help me strap this on," she said distractedly as she handed him a wrist sheath.

"No, _mi cara_, I do not speak about this evening's festivities," he said as he deftly buckled the leather in place. Harlow slid a dragon bone blade into the sheath and began easing the silken sleeve over the blade, taking care not to catch the fabric.

"Then what _are _you speaking of?" she asked as she tested the movement of her arm, ensuring the weapon remain in conspicuous beneath the gown.

"You spoke of eventually, _mi fiore mortale_, as if we are to be together in such a time."

"Well of course we are," she said confused, attention still focused on hiding a myriad of weapons beneath her skirt, "you are my dearest friend, why would something like 'eventually' not include you?"

"It is too hard, _mi amore_. I have fought it for too long, and I simply can no longer. The other night has shown me that," Zevran said carefully; voice aiming for steady but wobbling nonetheless.

"Zev, I don't understand, what-"

"I wish to be released from my oath," he said suddenly, voice louder than he intended. Harlow's hands stilled above her weapons, her breath hitching in shock. When she raised her eyes to meet his, she found them full of pain and regret. "I am sorry, Harlow, but it is true."

"Zevran, is this because of what happened? Because if so, please, know that I am horrified by my behavior. It was never my intention to use you in such a way, and if I had known-" he cut her off with a raised hand, eyes closed against her words.

"_Si,_ in a way it is because of that night, but there is so much more. I cannot out run my feelings for you, my sweet, nor more than you can out run yours for our bastard king."

"Please, don't do this," Harlow pleaded, panic rising in her chest. The idea of Zevran retreating from her life, never to return…it was a thing so unthinkable there was no way to prepare for the blow.

"You shall always look upon me with the love of friendship, Lo-Lo, not of desire," he said with a sad smile, a hand coming to rest gently upon her cheek, "and while Alistair believes it is the stronger love, it brings me no comfort, and it is why I wish to go."

"Alistair?" Harlow asked in confusion, "what did he say to you?"

"He said many things, _mi cara_, many of which were true, but-"

"Did he tell you to do this?" she asked shrilly, pulling away from him and striding to her door, "did he give you some noble speech about the nature of love and heartbreak and convince you what was best? That selfish _shem_!"

"Harlow," Zevran said soothingly as he caught her wrist and pulled her back to him. "He knows nothing of this. I came to this decision alone, after one too many sleepless nights spent pining over your lovely face."

"Zev, I don't know how to do this without you," she said in a scared whisper, "you have been my home for the past three years. I would lay down my life for you, no one, not even Alistair knows me like you. How am I to get through the day knowing half my heart is gone?"

"And how shall I; knowing I left all of mine with you?" he replied, eyes welling up to let a single tear roll down his cheek. "Ah, Harlow, you will find a way. You are stronger than all of us. Given time, you will forget the dashing Antivan elf and his wicked games."

"Never," she said fiercely, gripping his hands tightly in hers. Zevran smiled and tilted his head forward to rest his brow against hers. Harlow felt her own tears flow quietly from her eyes, and the pair stood there in silence, unwilling to end this moment, knowing it was the end of something precious and rare.

In the end, duty and matters of state forced them to step apart, and Harlow felt Zevran's fingers fall from hers.

"When this is over; when Anora is stopped, I release you from your oath, Zevran Arainai. You are free to do as you will," she said formally, voice catching on the words. He closed his eyes and swept her a bow.

"Thank you, _mi amore_," he whispered as he straightened up. He turned to leave, unable to stand the heartache in her eyes. At her door he paused, hand on the knob, and turned to regard her one last time. "He doesn't deserve you, Harlow. Whatever happens, know that."

She smiled weakly in reply, hands clasped tight to her chest as if the very act could keep her heart of breaking.

"And I don't deserve you, _mi cuore_," she whispered in broken Antivan, "but the fact that you believe I do is a gift beyond price."

Zevran raised his fingers to his lips and smiled before quietly taking his leave. Harlow stared hard at the closed door and struggled to remember how to breathe, feeling hollow and alone for the first time in years.


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: Bah! I suck at describing dance. If you want a more visual idea of what a sexy tango looks like youtube the tango scenes from the movies ****Take the Lead**** and ****Moulin Rouge****. It's a dance with lots of fluid motions followed by harsh ones, very suggestive. Mix that in with traditional court dances and you'll have an idea. **

**I finally figured out how this is all going to end, and without giving too much away I can tell you it is MILES away from where I had originally planned. It is not the traditional happily ever after, but there is happiness in it. That being said, until the last three chapters, matters will continue to fall out as I had originally planned (only 8 more chapters after this!)**

**Also…passed my exam…fully licensed cosmetologist!**

The castle ballroom was a study in controlled chaos. Everywhere Harlow looked a swirling riot of color assaulted her senses. Gowns and doublets of rich saffron, deepest azure, and flashing obsidian swept across the dance floor in time with the delicate music that floated on the air. Servants wove unobtrusively through the assembled nobility, offering the choicest selections of wine pilfered from Alistair's cellar. And beneath it all; the gaiety and laughter, the rich food and lavish fashion…the dark murmur of politics ran. There was little doubt that matters of state and court were being decided between waltzes. It was exhausting to watch and Harlow sighed wearily, already exhausted, despite having yet to be announced.

"Arlessa Tabris, as I live and breathe! You are a study in elegance, my lady," a warm voice called from behind her shoulder. She turned expecting some simpering nobleman attempting to earn her favor but was pleasantly surprised to find a smiling Teagan Guerrin.

"Teagan!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms about the man, "I had no idea you would be here! It's been too long."

"I too did not expect to be in attendance, but Eamon called me away from Redcliff to discuss politics, and so I came. Had I known you were in residence I would have sought you out sooner, my dear."

"Excuse me, Arlessa," a servant muttered demurely, eyes downcast, "the crier would like to know who is escorting you this evening."

Harlow was at a loss for words. Never had the thought crossed her mind that such a thing was necessary. After all, she thought of this more as a battleground than a ball; not exactly the sort of thing one invites a companion to. She was saved from having to answer as Teagan slipped his arm through hers and gave her hand a reassuring pat.

"It would be my honor to escort the Arlessa," he said gentlemanly and the servant bowed before making a graceful exit.

"You are a hero in your own right, Teagan," Harlow whispered as they took their place at the head of the stairs, "how is it that you aren't married?"

"Ah, sadly the Hero of Ferelden took my heart long ago. What other woman could compare to a dragon slayer of such renown?" he teased and Harlow's laughter rang from her lips as she playfully swatted at him.

"You are a terrible flirt, Teagan, and a horrible liar too boot," she muttered as she straightened her posture into a proud steel bearing. The two took a deliberate step forward and paused at the first stair, waiting for the crier to announce their presence.

"May I present the Lady Harlow Tabris, Arlessa of Amaranthine, escorted by Lord Teagan Guerrin, newly named Arl of Redcliff," the servant cried out in a booming, clear voice. Harlow's eyes went wide at the titles and snapped her head about to stare open mouthed at her companion. He gave her a wry smile and a gentle tug before leading her down the massive staircase.

"_Arl_ of Redcliff?" Harlow whispered as she concentrated on keeping her balance in her elaborate gown.

"Yes," Teagan said pleasantly as he waved at a distant nobleman, "'twas the politics I mentioned earlier. Eamon feels he is needed in a far larger capacity here at the castle and as such abdicated his title."

"So Redcliff fell to you," she said chuckling, "Isolde must have lost what little mind she had left."

"She was…displeased, to say the least," he said carefully as they reached the foot of the stairs. The musicians struck up a sedated waltz and Teagan bowed regally, eyes flashing in delight. "May I have this dance, Arlessa?"

She smiled and placed a hand in his out stretched palm, a roll of the eyes her only hint at nerves. Teagan danced remarkably well and Harlow felt almost instantly at ease under his expert leadership. So much so that but a few measures in she forgot to focus on her feet and let the steps become an afterthought.

"So what is the master plan for the evening?" Teagan asked after a moment, pausing to maneuver her into a graceful turn.

"Plan?" she asked with false innocence.

"Harlow, do give me some credit. Eamon has mentioned that there has been some…unpleasantness as of late. And knowing the history between yourself and Alistair and I know that it would take something rather dire to bring you back within Denerim's walls. Not to mention…Maker's breath, is that a sword you have strapped to your back?" the Arl inquired, his hand absently patting at the ridge of her corset.

"No, that is a different sort of weapon known as Orlesian tailoring," Harlow muttered, "if you're looking for blades, those are up my sleeves and under my skirt."

"So then I can expect blood sport to be on the list of entertainments this evening?" he asked lightly, but Harlow saw the shrewd calculation in eyes. For all that he had been playing at lord of the manor, it did not change the fact that Teagan was a veteran soldier.

"Don't trouble yourself," Harlow said dismissively, "we have it all well in hand."

Teagan nodded in deference and gently bowed as the dance came to an end. The pair walked arm in arm from the dance floor, plucking glasses of rich red wine from a passing tray. They stood with their backs to the wall, well away from the crowd of onlookers and revelers, letting a companionable silence fall between them. Harlow took the time to scan the room, ensuring that all was in preparation for their scheme.

She spied Bann Lyon chatting nervously with one of the Kirkwall delegates and rolled her eyes. A life in theater was not something the man should ever aspire to, so obvious was his discomfort and anxiety. Leliana was nearby, clad in a stunning display of pale lavender silk, a bevy of admirers surrounding her. Harlow continued her search, hoping to find Zevran, but instead her gaze landed on Alistair and she felt her breath catch. He looked every inch the stately king, a confidant and proud bearing to his stature. Never before had she seen in him such finery, it was as if he had stepped straight out of a tale of courtly love and adventure. A rich brocade of silver gold clung to every muscle of his well formed torso, flowing seamlessly into breeches of deep, liquid ebony.

"He has grown quite well into the role of King, hasn't he?" Teagan said appreciatively, breaking her from her reverie.

"That depends on your definition of 'king'," Harlow snorted as she turned her attention to her wine glass, "If you mean that he has fit into the mold of his predecessors, than yes, he has done so _quite nicely_."

"Do I detect a note of bitterness, Harlow?"

"I came here to save his life only to discover he's been pissing it away in wine and women. He's become selfish, Teagan, corrupted by the curse of a crown. We can only hope that his _fiancé_ has a far more practical view of things," she spat bitterly.

"Ah, so you know about Elissa Cousland," the Arl replied in understanding.

"Yes, I am privy to that bit of information," she replied sarcastically. Teagan placed a hand upon her shoulder and turned her about to face him, his expression serious.

"It is the way of politics, Harlow," he explained clearly, "for all that a man is King, he has very little say in his own life. Do you truly think a single man or woman here had a say in who they married? You asked me how it was that I had not take vows of matrimony. Were it up to me I would have married dairy crofter's daughter years ago and been done with it, but that is the one luxury not afforded to nobility. Do not punish the man for it."

Harlow was shocked at the man's words, and felt her cheeks flare in shame. Teagan was right, and what's more she knew it. The anger she carried for Alistair was old and festering, and the discovery of a prospective wife had only inflamed it anew. It did not help that the knowledge of such a thing had come on the heels of an almost kiss shared between them, but Harlow always knew the day would come when Alistair found himself a bride. She just did not expect to be around for the occasion.

"For what it's worth, Elissa Cousland is a wonderful woman, and had circumstances fallen out differently I quite think the two of you would be friends. She is resourceful and intelligent, never seeking to submit to a man simply because of her gender. She is also a well trained rogue of no little renown….quite like someone else I know," Teagan said softly with a smile.

"So Eamon has found a shemlan copy of me, how very fitting," Harlow said, trying for humor but failing miserably. Whatever words were on Teagan's tongue were silenced as Alistair strode towards the pair, an expectant look on his face.

"Arlessa, may I have the next dance?" he asked, a nervous bobble to his voice. Harlow swallowed her emotions and painted a false smile on her face as she handed her wine to Teagan.

"I would be delighted, your majesty," she said sweetly as she bent into a low curtsy. As Alistair escorted her to the dance floor, he waved his hand at the assembled musicians, setting the evenings plans into motion.

"Are you ready for this?" he murmured in her ear as they took their positions, his right hand grasping her tightly about the waist.

"Which part?" she whispered back, "dancing intimately with my ex lover, the scandal said dance will cause, or the blood bath that's about to ensure?"

"Right, stupid question," Alistair chuckled as the opening notes of the Antivan tango rang through the room. Harlow took a deep breath and plunged into the dance, her heart beating in time with the music.

She had thought he would be uncertain; hesitant at performing such a complicated set of steps. But something had gripped Alistair and he handled her with such a confidence that she felt herself get lost in the dance. Zevran had taught him well, perhaps too well, for Alistair was looking at her with barely masked desire in his eyes as he led her across the floor. The Antivan Tango was a sultry dance of predator and prey, wherein the roles were fluid and reversible. A study in the very nature of the act of love…it burned slowly, teasingly, the tempo rising with each twist and dip. Harlow could feel her pulse in her throat as she executed the steps, ignoring the gasps from the crowd as she ran a thigh slowly up Alistair's leg, his hand coming hard about her flesh as he lifted her into a spin. For a moment it was as if the world dropped away and all that mattered was the feel of his body pressed to hers, the way her arms gripped his shoulders with such possession. The music swelled to a crescendo, and the pair glided faster and faster across the floor, breath coming in rapid pants. It was only with a final flourish of strings did it end, Alistair having bent Harlow almost in half over his arm, his mouth hovering mere inches from the skin of her neck. Silence descended on the room, no one daring to speak. Harlow watched as Alistair flicked his gaze to hers, a feral look in his eyes as he daringly laid a lingering kiss at the hollow of her throat.

Whatever outraged cries from the assembled nobility were silenced as a well aimed crossbow quarrel whizzed by the King's head, narrowly missing Harlow and embedding itself in the floor a mere foot away. The pair followed it's trajectory before locking gazes once more. Harlow let a knife sharp smile spread across her lips as she muttered, "Showtime."


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N:** **A lot action in this chapter, not much dialogue (which is unusual for me). Hope you enjoy! Also, I'm all for constructive criticism, and I'll happily debate and defend my position/story, but if you're just going to be downright nasty at least have the balls to do it with a name attached to your words. Don't hide behind the anonymity of the internet. (sorry, had a few just obviously mean spirited reviews posted under 'guest' to a few of my stories and I got a little angry...)**

Alistair and Harlow broke apart, each drawing blades from cunning hiding places beneath their finery. Screams and cries of outrage rippled through the crowd as supposedly loyal palace guards surged forward towards the king and his companion. It was utter mayhem, and in the end that had been the point, for if anyone had been paying close attention, they would have noticed a figure on the balcony, a crossbow in hand, receiving a congratulatory pat from an Antivan elf.

Anora's plan had presented a unique opportunity in that very little had to be changed to achieve Harlow and Zevran's goal. It would allow them to flush out those in the guard disloyal to their king and try and catch the former queen at her game. The only element that needed to be altered was Alistair's actual assassination; a task that was easily accomplished by an arrow purposefully shot wide from the fingers of one of Harlow's all too eager Grey Warden recruits. The woman's participation had been Harlow's only reservation, citing that the order did not take sides in the matter of politics. Zevran had managed to talk his way around that fact by pointing out that not only was such a person one of the few they could trust, but they were, in fact, defending the life a brother in arms. Fragile reasoning at best, but in the end Harlow had acceded, despite the misgivings that still niggled at her conscious.

Such thoughts were swept aside for later examination as a burly guard barreled towards her, a vicious broadsword aimed at her chest. Harlow met the blow with gritted teeth, struggling to find a way that would allow her to move in her ridiculous outfit. She pressed him as best she could; keeping him at bay with shallow slashes that did little more than annoy. When her opponent managed to draw a line of blood across her shoulder she snarled in frustration and called out to Teagan who had somehow found a weapon in all the chaos.

"Teagan! Help me out of this blasted thing!" she cried, as she fended off a bone jarring blow from the guard. Teagan dispatched his current opponent with a quick thrust to the neck before spinning to her aid. He drew a dagger from his boot and in one deft motion sliced through the laces of her corset. The fabric parted with a sigh and fell to the ground, and for the first time that evening Harlow drew a full breath in utter glee. She smiled maliciously at her opponent and began to fight in earnest, using every skill she had honed in her long life as a rogue. It was a matter of minutes before the man fell; drowning in his own blood.

The skirmish raged on around her, each of her allies felling one traitor after another. The twenty guards they had been prepared for, having been made aware of their loyalties by a frightened Bann Lyon. What Harlow and her friends had been caught unawares by was the five members of the nobility and their houses who also threw their lots in with Anora when the battle began. Apparently she had not placed all her hopes on Lyon, and had hedged her bets with other members of court displeased with Alistair's reign.

The King himself seemed to be having the time of his life as he hacked and slashed his way through one opponent after another. What members of his guard that had remained loyal tried to circle their liege and defended him from danger, but he was having none of it. Harlow distantly heard him let out a whoop of happiness as he clobbered one man about the temple with the hilt of his sword. She had no time to focus on such a thing as she was suddenly yanked backwards by the elaborate braid plaited into her hair. Her scalp screamed in protest as the circlet and its attachments were ripped away, allowing the thick braid to swing low across her back. She scrambled to get away, but her unseen captor held on, jerking her hard to the ground.

"This is why I don't dress up," she muttered as she hastily swung her sword in an arc behind her, the blade neatly severing the horse's mane from her own tresses. With a practiced flip she snapped to her feet and spun to face her attacker; a stunned nobleman who looked dumbly at the length of braid dangling in his hand. Rolling her eyes in disgust she quickly ran a dagger through his gut, pulling the weapon free with a spray of blood.

The sounds of fighting began to ease, and Harlow paused to take in the state of the situation. A few adversaries remained, but it was nothing that her companions could not handle; and, Maker be praised, each and every one of them was still standing. She could not be sure of those among the guard, too numerous were they for her to get an accurate accounting of their number. As her eyes swept the ballroom, seeking out enemies and allies alike she felt the world spin to a halt as she locked gazes with a woman she hadn't seen in over three years.

Anora Mac Tir Theirin had changed very little in that time, she was still the same regal beauty she had always been, but Harlow saw something in her eyes that was new. There was a hardness there that spoke of trials endured and actions taken to ensure survival. Harlow recognized it for what it was, having the same edge to her own gaze. Three years in Fort Drakon could not have been easy to endure, and Anora's time spent there had honed her into a weapon. This would not be the easy victory Harlow had imagined.

The two women eyed each other over the heads of the panicked crowd, and Anora's face twisted into one of blind hatred. Even as the former queen turned to push her way towards the ballroom's doors, Harlow's lips were forming a shouted warning.

"Zevran!" she cried, arm pointing out the enemy, "It's her!"

The elf snapped his head around at the sound of her voice and his gaze flowed across the room, seeking out his prey. He barely caught a glimpse of blond hair and a familiar profile slipping though the crowd before exiting the grand room. Cursing in Antivan he began shoving bodies out of the way in an effort to catch up to his quarry.

Harlow lost sight of them as she was knocked aside by a servant trying to outrun the melee. She snarled at the girl, irritation warring inside her. Instantly she regretted the action as the slight woman coward in fear from her bloodstained form. Not having time for an apology Harlow turned to seek out Alistair, finding him trying to wrestle his sword from between the ribs of a fallen foe. Harlow knelt down to slip her fingers in the gaping wound and pulled harshly, snapping the bones and allowing Alistair to wrench his blade free.

"Is it over?" he asked breathlessly, swaying a bit on his feet.

"For the time being," she replied, a note of urgency in her voice, "I saw Anora."

"You what?" Alistair asked shocked. Harlow nodded and tore at her hair in frustration.

"I saw her. She was _right there_. But she was too bloody far away and I froze."

"Where did she go?" he asked, gripping her shoulders tight and shaking her as if he could knock the answer from her skull.

"I don't know!" Harlow cried, shrugging out of his grip, "Zev followed her, though. Maybe he caught up to her."

"We can only hope," came his grim reply as she sighed wearily. Harlow nodded and looked about the ball room. Injured and dying men littered the floor, which was now slick with blood and offal. Without a word the pair split up and began assessing the casualties, taking note of those who remained loyal and those who had turned on their king without a second thought.

It was a grim business; counting the dead. Teagan assisted, knowing far more faces than Harlow. Healers were called in to attend to those who would were capable of surviving and Harlow meted out mercy to those who were too far gone. Enemies and friends alike she gave the gift of a quick death, slicing blades across throats to end suffering where she could. Despite whatever crimes were committed, Harlow could not let herself leave a man to the agony of a mortal wound. She herself was doomed to a slow and torturous death, and she knew it…the knowledge being a form of madness that ate away at her. Because of that alone she offered mercy, praying such a thing would be afforded to her when the time came.

In the end all of the traitors lay dead and ten amongst the king's guard with them. The Bann of Southreach's wife numbered among the casualties, having lost her footing in the stampede to the exit and being trampled underfoot. Harlow had to turn away from the sight of the man sobbing over his wife's remains. He alone had stayed behind, desperately searching for his spouse, hoping that he could save her. Of all the things she had witnessed in her life, such a sight rated amongst the most heartbreaking, though she could not have said why.

An hour later, Harlow lay sprawled on the grand staircase, Leliana perched beside her. Each woman had started the night out in the most glamorous finery ever afford them. Now their beautiful gowns were stiff with blood, slices and tears marring the fabric. Neither woman said a word, but each perked to attention as a weary Zevran entered the ballroom and strode towards them.

"Did you find her?" Harlow asked hopefully.

"_Si_, I tracked her to a manor house in the market district," he replied. Harlow closed her eyes, relieved that they at least had knowledge of the woman's whereabouts.

"Well, that's something at least," she muttered, leaning back to rest her head against the stairs.

"Harlow, I know you are tired, but believe me when I say you cannot rest, not yet, _mi cara."_

"And why is that?" Alistair asked as he joined the group, swaying a bit in exhaustion.

"Anora knows she has been found out. I would not count on her remaining in one place for long. If you wish to be rid of the bitch, you must strike. Tonight."

Harlow groaned at the prospect, her feelings echoed by Leliana's soft whimper a second later. More than anything she wanted to wash the blood from her skin and crawl into bed, letting sleep and oblivion claim her for a few blissful hours. It seemed as a year's worth of time had passed since she first step foot in the castle and she was just so _damn_ tired. But as much as she wanted to scream and rage, she knew Zevran was right.

"At least let me change," she said after a moment's pause, rising wearily to her feet, "after tonight I am refusing to _ever_ fight in a dress again."

"Are we actually talking about this?" Alistair protested, "Slaughtering over thirty people and immediately heading out to kill more?"

"Do you have a better idea, my king?" Zevran asked politely, his eyebrow cocked in question.

"Look at us! We can all barely stand and you want us to go waltzing into another battlefield?"

"I've had my fill of waltzing for the night," Harlow said as she began to climb the stairs, "I'll settle for good old fashioned storming at this point." When she reached the apex she glanced over her shoulder at her exhausted companions and managed a small smile. "Suit up, everyone. We attack in an hour."


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: A bit longer than usual…lots of angst and one hell of a cliff hanger. Don't hate me! I have plans! I swear! **

What is it about the night that lends itself to dangerous deeds? A man can just as easily be killed with the sun full shining on his face, but something about the inky black calls out for such deeds. Harlow herself was beginning to think she'd never again see Denerim during daylight hours, all her ventures outside the castle gates having taken place after sundown. It was oddly peaceful in a way, but she did miss the bustle of the market district when it was full to bursting with people.

The four members of her little party strode thoughtfully through the streets, each exhausted and pensive. Alistair and Zevran strode side by side, an uneasy truce between them. Harlow still was not privy to what had transpired between the two men, but whatever it was had forged an unlikely bond of the pair. Harlow hung back, watching them as they made idle chatter, studying them with a weary heart. It was as if she was watching her past walk away from her. Soon this would all be over…they would find Anora and strike her down, and Harlow would find herself utterly alone, to return to Amaranthine with five recruits in tow; strangers all. Alistair would remain and wed a beautiful noblewoman and Zevran would…disappear.

"You really must stop this, my friend," A soft voice murmured next to her. Harlow turned and regarded Leliana with an amused look.

"Stop what?" she asked, eyes returning to the men before her.

"This foray into self pity and malaise. It is quite unbecoming, you know."

"Is it that obvious?" Harlow said with a chuckle, "I thought I was doing a rather good job of being all dour and brave."

"What did you think was going to happen, Harlow?" Leliana countered a bite of anger to her words. "You placed Alistair on a throne with no wife, are you truly surprised that a potential bride has materialized?"

"Really, Lei? You want to talk about this now? I don't think _this_ is the best time or place to do so," Harlow said testily, uncomfortable with the bard's words.

"If not now when? At Alistair's wedding? Or perhaps tomorrow, when Zevran finally takes his leave of you?"

Harlow came to an abrupt stop, stunned at the Leliana's harsh words. The bard gracefully followed suit and turned expectantly, a look of expectation on her face. It took Harlow three tries to find her voice, but she finally succeeded, and managed to croak out, "how did you know about that?"

"You are not the only friend our Antivan crow claims, Harlow, merely the only one who holds his heart. Yes, I know of his feelings and his desire to flee from them. It is quite the tragic tale, and I must admit as a bard it catches my fancy. But at the moment I care for none of that…I only wish to know what it is you intended to _do_ Harlow," Leliana said simply, crossing her arms and settling in for an answer. Harlow had never seen this side of the chantry sister before. She felt alternately proud and somewhat terrified. She had always viewed her friend as a soft spoken, graceful, and sympathetic woman. It was her own fault for not recognizing the fire beneath the fragile bloom.

"I don't know what I intend to do," she whispered ashamed, "I don't even know what it is I'm _supposed_ to do."

Harlow sank to the ground, head resting between her knees as she let out a sorrowful sigh. Up ahead the two men stopped, realizing their companions had fallen behind. Leliana waved them off with a flick of the wrist before kneeling beside her friend and placing a gentle hand upon her shoulder.

"You're a bard, Leliana," Harlow said after a moment, a false smile painted on her face, "you tell me what I am to do. Help me turn this into a tale of grand adventure and courtly love. Make me a heroine who saves the day. If you can do that I'll gladly swallow my sword for you can perform miracles, because let's face it, there are no happy endings here."

"You view these men as if they are your past, as if they have already slipped through fingers," Leliana said after a pause, her words chosen carefully.

"Haven't they?" Harlow insisted, eyes flicking to look at Zev and Alistair. They stood a good distance away, eyeing the women with confusion.

"What if I were to tell you that, perhaps, there is a happy ending in all this?" the bard hedged. Before Harlow could protest she held a hand up, silencing her. "But first you must tell me, do you think you could find such a thing with either one, were titles and vows not an obstacle?" Sighing Harlow closed her eyes and truly thought on the matter before answering.

"I don't know if it's possible…with either one. There is so much history between Alistair and I, much of it painful. I feel our relationship fragmenting with every minute that passes. He is so different from the man I knew, and try as I might, I cannot forgive him the hurt he caused when he cast me aside."

"And Zev?" Leliana prodded gently, her voice empty of inflection.

"I had truly never thought on it before…not until his rather dramatic declaration. Truth be told I haven't had much time to think on it since…but…" Harlow trailed off, wishing she could adequately describe her feelings. "He knows me so well, Leliana, he has seen me at my worst and never turned away. I would be lying if there wasn't an appeal to the idea…to be loved wholly for what I am and not in spite of it. There would be none of the heartache as there is with Alistair…but I worry if that is what keeps me from his affections."

"How so?" Leliana asked, cocking her head to the side in confusion.

"Alistair and I fell in love in the heat of battle and the end of the world," Harlow explained, trying to puzzle out her own emotions in the process, "it was quick, and passionate, and neither of us were sure we'd live to see the next sunrise. Such a thing is powerful, and I fear it is what makes me love him so. Even after the blight, when the dust had settled and we were parted, we never could let go of that fire that drove us to each other's bed. It is what makes it impossible for us not to hurt one another…we treat our relationship like it's the battlefield we met on."

Leliana shook her head, still unable to make sense of what she was hearing. Harlow swallowed hard and tried to put it as simply as she could.

"I wonder, then, if the reason I hold so tightly to Alistair is because I truly love him, or if I am simply addicted to the passion…could a relationship built on feelings as pure as Zevran's have the same intensity as one built on desperation and heady romance?"

Leliana's gaze softened as she absorbed Harlow's words, her face taking on a mask of sympathetic understanding. Harlow tried to smile, but could not manage, and simply lay her head against her friend's shoulder, wanting comfort and validation for her truly backwards thinking.

"You poor dear," the bard murmured soothingly, "It must be so hard to feel such a thing…you truly are a tragic figure of legend." Harlow laughed out loud at that, startled at the sarcasm voiced with such a caring tone. Leliana smiled and pulled back to cradle the rogue's face in her hands. "You are daft to think such a thing. You have enough passion all on your own that any man you choose to love cannot help but be swept away in it."

Harlow let out an amused sigh and pushed herself to her feet, brushing the dirt off her armor as she did so.

"So tell me, Lei, what is your miracle fix for my _tragic_ situation," she asked lightly, an expectant smile on her face. Leliana let out a breath, an aura of seriousness over taking her.

"It is a royal custom that has fallen into antiquity here, though it is still commonly employed in Orlais," she explained carefully, "It is the title of 'consort.' It is less than a marriage but far more than a mistress, usually afforded to a lesser member of the nobility. Let us not forget you _are_ an Arlessa."

"Oh? And what does that entail exactly?" Harlow asked, suddenly nervous. Her stomach fluttered uneasily as her mind chewed over this piece of information.

"Nobility have been employing the title for generations in order to remain tied to those they truly love. Should Alistair name you as such, he would no longer be obligated to marry and you would be acknowledged before the realm as his lover."

Harlow stopped breathing. It was all too much, and all too easy. It was as if this perfect solution had been dropped in her lap after years of wanting and tears. But she was far to pragmatic to simply leap at the suggestion and think that everything would fall into place.

"Understand you would have no political standing," Leliana rushed to warn, "Any duties afforded to a queen would be barred to you. And Alistair would still need to name an heir, whether that be through a shared bloodline…or by…well, _other _means."

"Well Alistair's royal bloodline begins and ends with two men who are older than he," Harlow said wryly, "I'm assuming these _other_ means indicate he would have to produce a child with another woman."

Leliana said nothing, the silence all the answer that was needed. Harlow swore and paced a quick circle. It was tempting…_so_ very tempting to take this chance and damn the consequence. But there _would_ be consequences. Should Alistair name her consort, the Landsmeet would erupt into chaos. Every member of the nobility would be scrambling to find a connection in their family tree to the Theirin bloodline…the power plays that would ensue could turn deadly. It also did not change the fact that she was an elf, born into the poorest district of the city. For all that she was a member of the court, she was still not human enough for the royalty to easily accept. Alistair was right, her life would be under constant threat…it was an exhausting prospect to think on.

"Is this…are you saying that this is my answer? Is joining my fate with Alistair the happy ending you spoke of?" Harlow asked after a moment, unsure as to what she wished the answer to be.

"No," Leliana said with a slight shake of her head, "Your happy ending is yours to write, Harlow. I was merely offering you a solution should you choose it."

"It's too much, Lei, I can't…I need time," Harlow said, pushing the thoughts from her mind. The bard simply nodded and turned to catch up to the men, standing forgotten a few paces from them. Harlow followed, a contemplative look etched on her face.

"What as all that about?" Alistair asked her with a worried voice.

"Nothing," Harlow said dismissively, "just…something that needed to be said. Come on, let's get this over with." Alistair frowned, clearly not wanting to let the subject drop, but obeying all the same.

The group continued on to their destination, nary a word spoken between them. It was only when they had arrived at the manor Zevran had traced Anora too did they dare to break the silence.

"Do we knock?" Alistair joked half heartedly as they stared up at the shuttered windows and imposing door.

"Is there a back entrance, Zev? I don't think I can lift the tumblers on that lock," Harlow said as she cast a shrewd eye to the massive bit of iron work that bolted the door. Zevran nodded and led them around the building. A servant's entrance was hidden near an overgrown bush of ivy and Harlow quickly set to work at picking the lock. It fell into place easily and Harlow found herself falling forward as the door gave way, surprised at the sudden motion. She stumbled into a brightly lit room, ending up splayed on the ground. Her group rushed in behind her and drew to a halt as they surveyed the surroundings. Harlow lifted her head to find herself staring into the eyes of half a dozen stunned mercenaries settled at a low trestle table.

"Well, guess this is the right place," she muttered before springing to her feet and drawing her sword. Her companions followed suit and quickly leapt to meet the nearest opponent.

The mercenaries were quickly dispatched with and the group soldiered on, searching each room of the manor for their quarry. It was poorly guarded; Anora having lost most of her resources and men to her previous schemes. Even so, the fighting was beginning to wear Harlow and her companions down, and they began to become sloppy in their tactics. By the time they had cleared out the parlor, Harlow felt herself swaying on her feet, exhaustion demanding that she rest.

"For someone as narcissistic as Anora she is fucking _impossible_ to find," she groused as she leaned her weight against her thighs. She wearily made her way to Zevran who was tending to a laceration along his ribs. "Are you ok?"

"_Si_," he replied with a shrug, "the leather took most of it, yes?" Harlow nodded as she glanced at the wound, noting that it seemed mostly superficial.

"I don't know if I can keep this up Zev," she said with a shake of her head, "Alistair was right. We're too worn down for this. If we don't find Anora soon I'm not sure I'll be worth anything when we do."

"Have faith, _mi cara_," he said with a smile, "we shall find her, you just-"

His words were silenced in a mist of blood as an arrow burst through right side of his chest. A look of confusion crossed his features as he studied her. "You're face…there's blood…"he muttered before crumbling to the ground.

"Zevran!" she screamed as she moved to catch him, falling to the floor with a dull thud. Turning her head to track the trajectory of the arrow she caught the image of a woman stepping out the shadows, a bow dangling loosely from her hand.

"I'm quite surprised you did not arrive sooner. You should know better than to keep a queen waiting," Anora said maliciously.


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: **_**Per le viscera dell'inferno**_** is bastardized Italian for "to the bowels of hell." So sadness…lots of sadness and angst. I'm not really thrilled with this chapter, but none the less here it is. Just two or three more installments after this (eek)!**

Time ground to a brutal, sudden halt and Harlow felt as if she were apart from the world. Cradling the limp form of Zevran in her lap she was distantly aware of Alistair and Leliana rushing to intercept Anora, but she only had eyes for the elf in her arms. His hand clumsily searched for hers and griped tight, the fingers slick with gore. Harlow held his gaze, tears streaming down her face as she held on for dear life, as if the fiercest desire in the world would keep him breathing. He managed a small smile before his fingers grew slack and his eyelids fluttered closed. In the space between on heartbeat and the next Harlow felt every part of her shatter into nothing as Zevran's hand slipped from hers to fall softly to the stone floor.

Life came rushing back to her in a painful burst and she shot to her feet, spinning to face Anora.

"No!" she commanded, bringing Alistair and Leliana up short from their attack. Harlow unsheathed her daggers and spun them about her hands, eyes locked with the murderous queen. "She's mine."

"Harlow, she must stand trial," Leliana protested softly.

"Shut up Lei," Harlow said quietly. Alistair placed a hand on the bard's shoulder and shook his head; a command for her silence. She began to circle Anora, her face empty of mercy and humanity. "Draw your blades, Anora."

"_You're _ not the one I want," the Queen sneered as she cast her bow aside.

"Neither was he," Harlow said softly, sparing a glance at the fallen elf, "didn't seem to matter to you then."

"It none the less got your attention," Anora ground out.

Harlow snarled and rushed the woman, knocking her off her feet and riding her hard to the ground. Anora's surprise lasted only seconds and she soon regained her wits and bucked Harlow off her in one fell motion. Scrambling to her feet, Harlow spun around and found her opponent circling her warily, a shining long sword in hand.

"You've come quite far from the simpering girl needing to be rescued," Harlow noted with malice.

"Did you truly think my father taught me nothing of his talents?" the queen countered before attacking with a surprising quickness.

"I see he taught you well in matters of treason," Harlow taunted as she met blow after blow, firmly trapped on the defensive.

"My father was a hero!" she screamed, sword swinging wildly with her anger. "He was _everything_ to me, and your bastard prince cut him down like cattle! He deserved far better than death at the hands of one such as him!"

Harlow ignored her rant, too focused on the deadly blade that was pressing her. Her stamina was flagging and the emotional upheaval she had experienced over the course of the last few days had taken its toll. Anora struck at her again and again, managing glancing blows and piercing wounds. Through it all Harlow stayed on her feet, stumbling through the fight with a desperation that bordered on madness. It was only when she lost her footing, ankle twisting on a misstep that she fell to the floor; the blood loss and exhaustion overpowering her desire to struggle to her feet. Anora stepped over her with a malicious sort of glee, sword point hovering above her chest.

"Alistair?" she called out, eyes still locked with Harlow's, "You took my father, my crown, and my life in one blow right before my eyes. Look now as I take your heart from you."

Alistair cried out in protest, rushing to intercept Anora before she could thrust her blade. The queen's eyes flickered at the movement and Harlow summoned what little energy she had left and kicked her legs out wildly, feet colliding with Anora's knee. The woman cried out in pain and stumbled forward, blade knocked from her grasp and clattering harmlessly to the floor. Harlow shakily rose to her feet and wrapped her fingers round the hilt of the weapon, grimacing as she hefted it upward. She flung a hand outwards and grasped Anora's shining hair in a tight fist, wrenching her neck back in a strained line.

"You are many things, Anora," Harlow panted, "you are conniving, traitorous, deplorable, and selfishly sadistic. But most importantly-" Harlow paused to surge her hand forward, forcing the sword through flesh and bone to burst out the queen's chest in a spray of blood. "You're dead."

She released Anora with a disgusted shrug and the woman fell to the stone floor, mouth opening and closing in a silent gasp. Seconds later the spark of hatred faded from her gaze and Anora looked up sightlessly at the heavens, her chest falling with one last breath.

Alistair surged to Harlow's side to catch her as her legs gave out, and she clung to the groves in his armor in an effort to keep up right.

"Maker, I thought I lost you," he murmured as his arms gripped her tightly. Harlow sobbed at the words, an acute reminder of just who and what she had lost only moments ago. Alistair swept her into his arms and cradled her as she cried, offering no words of comfort, knowing they would fall on deaf and grief stricken ears.

"_Mon Dieu!"_ Leliana cried from across the room, interrupting Harlow's sorrow. The pair turned their heads to regard the bard crouched by Zevran's still form and Leliana looked at them with scarce believing eyes. "He's still alive!"

And with that final bit of news, Harlow felt the world turn hazy and she fainted dead away in Alistair's arms.

~oOo~

Harlow was told it had been a near thing, but Zevran, despite the nature of his wound, managed to come out of the ordeal with his life intact. Harlow herself was cured of any lasting damage, the healers forcing elfroot potions down her throat to make up for the lost blood as they filled her body with soothing magic. It took a day of rest and supervision before she was allowed to leave her bed, and the second she was able she stiffly made her way to the castle's sick room, searching out the Antivan elf she had almost lost.

She was surprised to find him awake and arguing with his healer, a cross look upon his brow.

"You have closed the wound, _si?_ So tell me why it is I am confined to this damn bed?" he damned harshly, his accent growing thicker with his outrage.

"All due respect, my lord-" the healer said with a strained sort of patience.

"_Per le viscera dell'inferno_ with your 'my lords!" Zevran hissed as he raised himself up on his forearms.

"All due respect," the healer continued, undaunted by the elf's tone, "you very nearly died. Such a thing takes a toll on the body and I highly suggest you rest!"

Zevran's reply was a very nasty sounding string of Antivan words that were spat so quickly Harlow had trouble determining where one syllable began and another ended.

"I think you made a few of those words up," Harlow said lightly as she approached the pair, a hesitant smile ghosting her lips. The healer shook his head in exasperation and primly took his leave, allowing her to kneel down beside Zevran's side to look with relief upon his face.

"That infuriating man," he muttered as he settled back against the cot, "he treats me as if I shall break should I fend for myself."

"Considering the state you were in he came upon you, I don't blame him one bit," Harlow said seriously as she reached a hand out to brush the pink and swollen scar that marred his chest. "I thought you gone, Zevran. I am still not convinced this isn't all a dream and I'll wake to find you cold on the stones beside me."

"_Mi cara_, you should know that a simple arrow cannot fell me, I am far too handsome for such a common death," Zevran replied, gently removing her hand from his skin. Harlow refused to be brushed aside and quickly grasped his hand in hers.

"Don't make light of this," Harlow warned, her voice gone soft and sorrowful. "You have no idea the utter anguish I felt when I thought you dead. It was as if my very soul was torn in two and a part of me died along with you. You cannot imagine the utter emptiness your supposed death left inside me."

Zevran turned away from her, unable to meet the emotions that lay naked in her gaze.

"Do not say such things, Harlow. Not when you know what I have chosen. It is cruel to spout such devotions at me when I am on the heels of taking my leave of you," he said harshly, trying to distance himself from her with anger.

"Speak to me with enmity all you want, Zev. I deserve it for how I've treated you, blind as I was to your feelings. But do not diminish what I feel for you, not now."

"Which begs the question, what _do _ you feel for me, Harlow?" Zevran replied, a tone to his voice daring her to lie to him.

"Would you believe me if I said I don't know?" she countered, the words a confession in and of themselves. "Leliana asked me quite the same thing…and I was unable to answer definitively. You are a part of me, Zevran. You are twisted up in my life in a way no one else has ever been. The love I bear for you goes beyond mere friendship, it is a thing that no one, not even Alistair, has earned from me. That alone is enough to give me pause."

"I don't want to give you pause, _mi amore_," he said sadly, "I want to give you desire and passion and all those foolishly romantic things I used to so despise."

"And that is what scares me," she replied fiercely, pulling her hand away from his to pace about the room. "Alistair and I have all that, and look where it has gotten us? We scream and rage and press against each other until our hearts bleed but like lambs to the slaughter we lead ourselves right back for more. It would kill something inside me to watch you and I sink to such a low."

"Is that what keeps you from me?" Zevran demanded, pushing himself upright and looking at her with disbelieving eyes, "If you think I would dare to treat you as that pathetic oaf has, then you truly do not know me at all; and perhaps it is best that I am leaving if I am such a stranger in your eyes."

"And if you don't treat me in such a fashion?" she said, her voice gone watery with unshed tears, "If there is no all consuming fire how is there to be love?"

"What has that man done to you to for you to have such a twisted view on romance?" Zevran said after a moment's pause; tone soft and pitiful. Harlow shook her head sadly and opted to remain silent. Zevran sighed and hung his head, exhaustion sweeping through his over taxed body. "Why, _mi cara_, why speak of these things now?"

"Because I don't want you to go," she whispered, eyes closed tight. "I won't hold you to your oath, but…please, Zev…I need you."

Harlow was greeted with silence and she dared to open her eyes, hoping to find some unknown signal that her words had gotten through. All she found was Zevran's face turned from her, jaw tight and a tear trailing down his cheek. Realizing nothing she would say would make anything better she turned to leave, pausing at the door.

"I do love you Zevran, in what way I am not exactly sure. You can leave and run, try to put distance between us in the hopes that it will dissolve whatever feelings you harbor for me, but…you asked me once of 'eventually'…it is something I would have with you in whatever capacity I am able," she said softly before closing the door behind her.

She wandered through the castle, unsure as to her destination, though it should not have surprised her when she found herself standing before Alistair's door. She raised her hand to knock and waited for the quiet summons to enter, a strange sort of calm overtaking her.

Leliana had been right about one thing, it was up to Harlow to write her own ending…it had just taken her a while to realize that this particular ending she was about to undertake was not the happily ever after she had envisioned.


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: Okay so I'm posting the last three installments all in one go because frankly I just couldn't stop writing once I got started, and I know many of you are eager to see how this all ends. I'll write my thanks before the prologue, as I have many of them, but for now, enjoy!**

**Also, the first sentence is a play on a line from the movie ****Velvet Goldmine****(which is a truly spectacular movie which everyone should see!)**

It's funny how beautiful people are when one is on the verge of walking out the door. Alistair was sitting on his bed, clad in nothing but loose linen breeches, and Harlow felt her chest tighten as she looked upon his achingly familiar form. He looked at her with expectant eyes, but she took a moment to memorize him as he was now; his scarred and sculpted torso, the way his eyes revealed every thought that was in his head, the perpetually messy crown of not quite blond hair...he looked so painfully handsome and for a moment she felt her resolve waver. So tempting to just rush into his arms and forgive him his every slight, but try as she might, she just couldn't do it.

"Alistair," she said softly, savoring the feel of his name on her tongue. It was as if she was saying goodbye to a thousand different moments, each one requiring that she truly understand her choice.

"How is he?" Alistair asked, rising to his feet.

"He's fine, chafing at the bonds of recuperation, but more or less whole."

"As are we all, I'm still a little surprised we managed to pull it off," he replied with a grin as he approached her, "though by now I should know better that any expedition led by you is doomed to success."

"Are you disappointed in the outcome?" she asked sardonically, raising an eyebrow in question.

"Maker, no!" he chuckled, "It just gets rather old adding yet another instance to the long list of times in which you have saved my life. It's quite the debt to pay, Harlow."

"There is no debt, Alistair, for this or any transgression. Your slate is clean," she said softly, eyes down cast.

"As much as I'd like to believe that, I know you too well Harlow. You can hold something over a man from now until the end of days." A wry smile crossed his lips and he placed a hand gently upon her cheek. "Although I'm quite sure given time I'll find myself in another situation in which you must ride to my rescue."

"No, Alistair, you won't," she replied simply, turning away.

"Hey, don't underestimate my powers of idiocy, I take great pride in them," he replied, his voice light but a shadow of doubt flickering in his eyes. When she said nothing in return he cleared his throat and shifted nervously. "What is it, Harlow? Clearly you did not come here to celebrate our stunning victory."

"I came to say I'm leaving. Tomorrow," she said dully, turning back to him with an apologetic look on her face.

"No," he said after a moment, shaking his head,

"No?" Harlow echoed, disbelief coloring her voice.

"I won't let you. I just got you back and I refuse to let you walk out that door once more."

"You don't really have much say in the matter, Alistair," she replied tartly.

"The hell I don't. I _love_ you, that is all the say I need," he said fiercely. Harlow shook her head and sighed.

"Sometimes love isn't enough, Alistair," Harlow said softly. "Look at us: barely in the same room for five minutes and already we're snapping and snarling at each other. Do you truly think that any good could come from this?"

"It wasn't always this way," he insisted, "there was a time where we could barely see the world beyond each other. We can have that again, Harlow. We just have to try."

"And how do you propose we do that?" she asked wearily, as she slipped her hands from his.

"Leliana said…she offered-"

"A miracle? A loop to your hole, as Morrigan would say? Yes, I know all about it, and you are truly stupid if you even think it is a viable solution." Harlow began to pace about the room as she laid out exactly what was wrong with her receiving the title of 'consort.' "You realize that with no heir apparent should we do this the nobility would erupt into chaos. Each and every one of them would be maneuvering their family into the position of inheriting the throne, desperately seeking for a distant relation to the Theirin blood line. The gutters of the castle would run red with blood before the year is out as they attempted to off each other in the scramble. It would be madness and very likely throw the nation into civil war. I do not wish to be the cause of such a death toll; I have enough trouble with the blood spilt by my own hands, I don't need help with body count."

"Then I name an heir, here and now, before we announce our plans," he said, neatly sidestepping her argument. She frowned at him, put out at his blatant dismissal of her words.

"I doubt that would stop anything, Alistair…but setting that aside, it does not change the fact that were I to accept, my people would be the ones to suffer." He blinked at her, completely at a loss to her meaning. "Think! The minute you issued any decree that fell in favor of the elves the nobility would be whispering behind their hands that your _knife ear_ consort is overstepping her place. The landsmeet would fight you at every turn and nothing would be done to help my people. I won't let them suffer simply for our selfishness."

"I can't believe what I'm hearing," he said, his voice leaking frustration with every word, "I know things have been...strained between us, but damnit, Harlow, you don't throw away what we had because things get messy and hard. You fight and scratch and bleed to get it back!"

"And that's just it. I'm tired of fighting. More than that, I'm tired of _bleeding_. My heart is just a giant scar at this point, one that reopens every time our lives brush against one another. It's too damn hard and I am officially. Giving. Up.

She regarded him for a moment, staring into eyes so full of desperation that it was almost like a sickness upon him. She though back on every happy moment they had shared, and it felt as if she were watching another person live her life. She was no longer that young girl swept up in the glory of battle and true love. The events of the past year had hardened her to the truth of things…there was no stunning victory to be had in the deaths of men and everlasting love could wane and break under the stress of distance and pain. That person she was seemed miles away from her, and she mourned the loss of it and much as she mourned the loss of what that girl and the man before her had shared.

"What we had is gone, Alistair," she said after a pause, "we lead vastly different lives than we did during the blight, each of us bearing duties we simply cannot walk away from. I will return to Amaranthine as a Commander of the Grey, and you shall marry Elissa Cousland and rule over Ferelden. _That_ is who we are now, pretending to be anyone else is simply a lie."

"Harlow, I love you," he whispered, eyes filling with tears. She closed her eyes and reached out to him, grasping a hand fiercely in her own.

"And I love you, I always will. I don't think there will ever be a part of me that will stop loving you. But the time for such a thing has passed; our love began and ended on a battlefield, and that is the only place it seems to fit. Which is why I'm offering you a promise, and I expect the same in return."

He glanced up at her, his eyes confused behind a film of tears. Harlow swallowed hard and stepped close to him, holding his gaze with her own.

"Promise me, that whatever becomes of our lives, when the first of us begins to hear the call, we seek the other out."

Shock filled his face and he opened his mouth to protest but Harlow silenced it with a fierce and sudden kiss. When she broke away she cradled his face in her hands and let the tears she held back flow freely.

"I do not wish to die surrounded by monsters and the bones of those who came before me," she sobbed, the words painful and so full of longing that it was almost as if she were now the one pleading with him. "I wish to die surrounded by the love of a fellow brother in arms. Of all my friends, it is a battlefield only you and I can claim. However our lives turn out I want my fate to end with yours. We can recapture what we lost, but only when the time for such a thing has come. Promise me, and we can have our last moments be filled with each other."

Alistair gathered her into his arms and held on fiercely. Harlow felt a surge of such loss and love in that one gesture and she gripped him back tightly and let all the heart break flow out of her in a rush of tears. Together they mourned the loss of what had been, each one shaking with the force of their grief. How long they clung to each other was unsure, it felt like an eternity and all together too short. It was Alistair who ended it, pulling back to kiss her lightly, eyes closed against the image of her face.

"I promise," he whispered, the words a trembling breath against her lips. Harlow nodded, unable to manage anything more substantial. She stepped away from him, hands wiping futilely at the tears that coursed down her face.

Turning to leave, knowing if she didn't do it then she never would, she walked slowly to the door, refusing to look back on the man who had captured her heart so long ago. She knew deep down that this had been a long time coming and that it was the right path for both of them, but it did not ease the pain inside. As she closed the door behind her, she couldn't help but notice that the sound of the latch catching sounded an awful lot like "goodbye."


	28. Chapter 28

When one has carried grief with them for so long, it is all together disorienting to feel its absence. Harlow woke the next morning, feeling hollow but in a strangely wonderful way. The throb of losing Alistair was still there, distant and constant as it ever would be, but the weight of their relationship was nowhere to be found. She felt light and hopeful for the first time in years and could not help but wear a small smile on her lips for most of the morning.

At least it was so until she ventured to the sick room to check on Zevran. When she found nothing but a rumpled cot and a grumpy healer, she felt the familiar hand of heartache settle once more upon her.

"Where is he?" she demanded, rounding on the healer as if he were responsible for Zevran's absence.

"He left," the man seethed, "despite my numerous warnings that he remain confined to his bed for another day of rest."

"Yes, I can see he has left," she countered patiently, words precise and spaced, "I am inquiring as to where he left to, you insufferable twat!"

"Oh yes, do call me names, it only makes me want to help you more," the man replied primly, brushing past her gather up the discarded linens from the now empty cot.

"I apologize," she ground out, hands clenched at her sides in an effort to control her temper. The healer glanced over his shoulder at her with a look that clearly stated he didn't believe her then returned to the task at hand.

"He made his escape while I was sleeping," he offered after a time, "sometime after eleven bells. No one in the castle has seen him sense. It appears he has disappeared from under our very noses."

Harlow closed her eyes and hung her head. It appeared her Antivan had decided that it was not worth the aggravation to stick around while she sorted out her tangled feelings. She could hardly blame him, she knew that it was unfair to even ask him such a thing, but a part of her had truly hoped that he would stay. It is that place in our minds that never truly grows up, thinking that despite the odds the heroes will prevail, the enemy will fall, and a person gets everything they ever desired handed to them. Harlow knew it was foolish to think such a thing and mentally chastised herself for hanging her hopes on such naiveté.

She slipped from the sick room, leaving the healer to his aggravated rumblings and numbly went about the business of trying to live a life that was now bereft of the two people who had mattered to her the most.

~oOo~

As the midday sun began to hang low on the horizon, Harlow supervised the last of her packs being strapped to a dappled grey mare. The five men and women she would be returning to Amaranthine with scurried about as they made preparations for their new lives. She could hear snatches of excited conversation as they pondered what mysteries lay ahead for them. Deep roads and darkspawn were a popular topic, and was the greatly exaggerated tales of her own exploits. Harlow felt a stab of nostalgia wash over her as she gazed upon the recruits' excited faces. She remembered what it had felt like to be chosen for such a thing, to know that you were considered special. Such a feeling had been worn down by years of watching comrades fall and new scars make a map of her skin. They would feel it too, eventually, but Harlow let them have their moment where the world was suddenly new and exciting. She knew all too well how important it would be to hold the memory of such a time close.

Squinting up at the sun, she hoisted herself up to settle uncomfortably on the mare. Riding a horse was talent she had yet to master, finding the whole thing a bit daunting. She had spent the entire blight crossing Ferelden on foot; it seemed strange to not feel the dirt beneath her boots as she cut a path to her destination. Her discomfort aside, she knew it was the most practical way for the group to cross the realm, having far too much to carry between them. Glancing back to ensure that all were ready to depart she urged the animal into a gentle walk and began to make her way to the castle gates.

As the massive iron work came into view, a lone figure leaning against a shadowed alcove caught her eye and she brought he horse up short to smile softly. Alistair returned the expression with one of his own; his eyes wistful with what could have beens. Neither said anything nor made a motion to close the distance between them. They simply help each other's gaze, the thread of their history stretched tight between them. Harlow suspected that she would always feel such a thing; an invisible tether that connected her to the man, but she took comfort in knowing one day it would lead him back to her. It was that knowledge that allowed her to raise her hand to her chest in a gesture of goodbye and promise. Alistair closed his eyes before placing his hand over his own heart, an acknowledgement and farewell all in one. She watched him as he slipped silently and obtrusively away, staring into the distance long after he had faded from view.

"Harlow!" a desperate voice called out, forcing her to turn to her attention away from her past. Leliana came running towards her, a cross look on her features. Harlow's mare shied at the sudden movement and she scrambled to keep the horse under control.

"Lei, you'll scare the horses," she chastised in annoyance as the beast danced below her.

"How dare you leave without saying goodbye!" the bard accused as she ignored Harlow's words.

"Forgive me, my friend," Harlow said softly, "but I have had my fill of goodbyes, I did not want to add yours to that painful list."

"So you have decided on your ending, then?" Leliana said, her voice softening with understanding.

"Yes, though I don't know how happy it will be. It rather seems one was chosen for me," Harlow replied, voice numb as she thought back to Zevran's empty cot. Leliana smiled at her and shook her head, a soft burst of laughter escaping her lips. Harlow looked at her in annoyance, put out that her friend could find mirth in her situation. "I'm sorry, Lei, does something about my loneliness amuse you?"

"For one who is not a bard you can be quite dramatic," she trilled as she held a hand out, a scrap of parchment clutched in her fingers. "This was left in my keeping, to be given to you upon your departure."

Curiosity filled her as she bent down to retrieve the missive and was shocked as Leliana grasped her firmly about the neck and placed a fierce kiss upon her lips. Harlow blinked in surprise, completely at odds with how to respond.

"Live well, my friend. You deserve as much," Leliana whispered before releasing her friend and happily sauntering off to disappear into the castle walls. Harlow could hear the snickers coming from her recruits and she shot them an embarrassed glare. It did nothing but rouse their spirits further and she shook her head as she cracked the plain seal on the missive in her hand. A golden earring tumbled into her palm and she felt herself go still with a hope she dare not let herself feel. She turned her eyes to the simple text and felt a joyful smile spread over her lips.

_For eventually, Mi amore, should you choose it._

Below the words lay a crudely drawn map of the Southron hills, an X marking a small holding she distantly recalled passing through years ago.

Harlow knew the significance of the bit of gold she now rolled in her palm. How could she not? Zevran had explained the Antivan custom one night long ago over far too many pints of ale. She had laughed then at such an image, of the seductive elf proffering himself in such a way. She laughed now as well, but it was one of joy and disbelief. She wasn't sure if she was capable of what he was offering, but for the first time since she met him she was willing to try.

"Commander, if we want to make good time we really should be on our way," a female recruit said hesitantly as she trotted up beside her. Harlow flashed a smile as she carefully strung the piece of jewelry through her left ear.

"I couldn't agree with you more," she said lightly, eyes on the horizon, "but we'll be in Amaranthine soon enough. First there is a small matter I need to attend to."

The recruit looked at her in confusion but bowed her head in obedience. Harlow gave her a grin before setting her heels against her mare and riding off to greet her future.


	29. Epilogue

**A/N:** **And here we are…the end. This has been one hell of a wild ride and I'm quite sure this story would never have been completed if it hadn't been for all of you. Your amazing reviews were such a joy to read and it kept me writing, knowing that there were people out there who cared about these characters. To all my loyal readers and lurkers alike…thank you so. Very. Much. For those of you curious, this story was SUPPOSED to be all about Alistair, but some how I turned Zevran into a leading man. The path not written did involve Harlow accepting the title of consort, Teagan marrying Elissa and Alistair naming their child heir. So while I didn't end up there, I am none the less pleased with how it all turned out. **

**Special thanks go to the talented KatDancer who unknowingly became a quasi beta and pointed out my inaccuracies throughout the story. I really appreciated it and glad you caught it before someone else did! Also to The Way They Were, CynderJenn and mandymc for your constant reviews that always brought a smile to my face. And to everyone else who reviewed/faved/followed I have tried to send a pm to all of you but some have slipped through the cracks. If I haven't reached out and told you how awesome you are please know that you super awesome sauce. **

**Ladies and Gentlemen…I give you…the end. **

Epilogue

Harlow Tabris stood at the window of the modest cottage and smiled as she heard Zevran chastise a youth for dropping his guard. For all his years, the elf still had a sharp tongue and wit about him and Harlow almost felt pity for the boy on the receiving end of his temper. Almost. With a contented sigh she turned from the window and set about placing the evening meal on the long trestle table.

Twenty five years ago Harlow had sought out her Antivan elf with a joyous heart and never once had she regretted the decision. That is not to say that it had been easy. Zevran was slow to trust her intentions and Harlow still had a long road ahead of her in letting go of the man she left behind. But neither had given up, and both dug in with a fierce sort of stubbornness. It happened slowly, with flirtation and easy touches, until one day Harlow had surprised them both with a gentle kiss upon Zevran's lips. She could not pinpoint exactly what had shifted within her, all she remembered was watching him sharpen a blade by candle light and she was taken with how undeniably beautiful he looked in the flickering shadows. He had looked at her in surprise before letting a slow smile cross his lips and returning the kiss with far more passion than she had given.

He had proved her fears wrong, showing her that love built on trust and purity could contain just as much desire and fervor as love built on desperation. Harlow had been a fool to ever think that a man such as Zevran Aranai would ever lack in passion. It was something he showed her again and again as she rediscovered how to love another person with all her being.

They had stayed in Amaranthine for five years before Harlow decided she'd had her fill of fighting darkspawn. The title of Commander hung heavy about her neck and she felt herself weighed down by the constant death and taint that seemed to fill every crevice of her life. Together, Harlow and Zevran had stolen from the keep in the dead of night, a simple missive relinquishing her command the only evidence of their flight. Harlow still felt guilty about abandoning her order, but when she weighed it against the happiness of her current life, she never dwelled on it long.

Her and Zevran had settled within the outskirts of Honleath, divesting themselves of their savings to buy a decrepit farmstead. It had taken two years but in the end they had managed to turn the place into a training ground for the local youth, each of them employing their skills to teach the next generation how to wield a blade. Harlow counted the last few years among the happiest of her life. Despite what Anora's poison had taken from her, Harlow found herself a surrogate mother to over a dozen children that passed through her cottage over the last twenty years. They looked up to her with such wonder and delight and she in turn could not help but care for them as she watched them grow from youths to strong adults, eager to make their place in the world.

It is not to say that she never thought upon what could have been. Alistair would occasionally creep into the edges of her consciousness every now and then, and Harlow would find herself lost in memories of a man she had loved long ago. Zevran never begrudged her these times, all too understanding that he was not the first man to hold her heart. Harlow had even told him of the promise she had made before leaving Alistair behind. It had taken him some time to accept such a thing, but he came around quickly enough, their time spent among the wardens giving him a unique understanding into such matters. Despite these upsets in her idyllic life, she never allowed herself to return to Denerim. She knew Alistair had married Elissa Cousland a year after she had left, and occasionally they would receive invitations to royal functions at the palace. Zevran would go in her stead, passing along good wishes and apologies for her absence. Every now and then he would return home with Leliana in tow, and the three of them would talk late into the night, reminiscing on their days long gone as heroes of fabled glory.

Such was her life, and Harlow was quite content with it, more than happy to live out her days with the man who captured her heart against all odds and the motley assemble of children that had come into their lives.

As the sun began to sink below the horizon, Harlow hummed quietly to as she busied herself about the kitchen, pulling fresh crusty bread from the hearth and placing it upon the table. It was then that she stiffened, feeling an unseen presence darken her doorway. She spun about, ready to defend her home and was shocked into stillness as she locked gazes with the visitor.

He looked the same as he always had, save for a streaking of silver about his temples and the fine web of lines that aged his face, but he was still as handsome as he'd ever been. It was as if the past two decades had never happened and Harlow was once again that young woman desperately in love with Alistair Theirin. She raised a hand to her mouth, scarce believing that he was here and standing before her. Silence stretched between them, and Harlow was more than willing to let it lie, content as she was to take in his face, relearning every line.

It was only when he opened his mouth to speak did she let herself believe this was not a dream and he was here in front of her.

"I heard the call," he said softly, his gaze intense and locked with hers. Harlow felt herself move without volition, her feet carrying her to his side. When she was close enough to feel the heat coming off him she raised her hand and brought it to his, fingers lacing in a tight grip. No words were spoken, for none were needed. They both knew what lay ahead of them, and a promise had to be kept. Harlow felt a pang of grief for the elf that she would leave behind, but staring into Alistair's eyes she knew their happy life had come to an end. The call could not be ignored, and so she would go, keeping true to her word that she had offered those many years ago.

Her life would be a battlefield for the last and final time, and Alistair would be by her side as he had been so long ago. Harlow felt that love that she had buried deep inside her roar back to the surface and the spark that connected her and Alistair flared to life as she nodded; a silent declaration that the time for them to be together, finally and at last, had come.


	30. just a little note

**A/N: Hello lovelies! No, this is not a new chapter, it is instead a note to tell those of you who faithfully followed Harlow that there is a SEQUEL to this story now up! It's called "Heavy are the Hearts that Wear the Crown" and it follows Alistair and Elissa's story after Harlow's departure. I couldn't get these characters out of my head and I'm very excited to see where this all goes. Some of you wanted me to let you know if I were to continue this cannon of mine, so this is just a note to let you know I have. So stop on by the sequel if you're so inclined and I hope you enjoy!**


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